


Diablo: Eye of the Dragon

by Hawanja



Category: Diablo (Video Game), Diablo II, Diablo III, Diablo Series - Richard A. Knaak
Genre: Fantasy, Games, Gen, High Fantasy, Male OC - Freeform, RPG, blizzard, female oc - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-12
Updated: 2019-01-09
Packaged: 2019-09-16 18:16:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 30,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16959072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hawanja/pseuds/Hawanja
Summary: A young blacksmith joins with a lost Rouge and a vengeful Barbarian, in order to stop a mad Wizard from destroying the world. Features original characters and settings in the Diablo universe.





	1. Chapter I: Life in the Dreadlands

Five Years after the destruction of the Worldstone.

For Torin, son of Ivan Stromgood, nothing ever changes. He awakened as usual with the cock crow, dressed in his simple clothing, attended to his morning toilet, and went into the kitchen to prepare a quick meal for his father and younger brother Torey. The meal usually consists of steamed oats, eggs, and leftover bread, however this morning the bread was too hard and the eggs were rotten. Still, Torin had long learned to count his blessings. Compared to most in Iskarvena and its surrounding territory he and his family lead a rather comfortable life. Not that they could be considered wealthy by any stretch of the imagination, however as the town blacksmith Torin’s father always managed to earn enough to put food on the table and keep a roof over their head, and for this the seventeen year old Torin was ever thankful.

Their house would be considered small, except most in Iskarvena didn’t live in dwellings of more than a few rooms. Ivan’s profession had allowed him to build a larger house on a plot of land he owned himself, of which he fully intended to leave to his eldest son upon his death. Torin looked out of the kitchen window as he chopped the oats. The snow covered road ran along in front of the house under a grove of large oak trees, and disappeared over a hill in the distance. Less than ten leagues down that road lay the river Solzenkard, which was the boundary of Iskarvena’s territory. Two leagues to the north lay mount Katarraht and the Pass of Skulls, which formed the northern border. Dark forest and icy wasteland lay to the west, sheer, impassable cliffs to the east. Within these confines Torin had lived the majority of his life.

 _And probably the remainder of it as well_ , he thought.

Father, Torey... it would be time to wake them soon. After they’ve all eaten, father would expect Torin to go down to the shop with him and continue his apprenticeship. Torin was reaching that age, he’d been told, when a man must settle down, take up a trade, and earn his place in the world. One day father won’t be around anymore and he, Torin Stromgood, would have to provide for his family... and speaking of families. There was the girl.

Not any girl, but _the_ girl, the one he was supposed to marry. Of course, nobody knew he was supposed to marry her but himself. Mehgan was her name, and she was a beautiful as the morning sunrise. Slender of body, with a narrow elfish face and hair more golden than the glittering wheat fields in summer. She was the daughter of the local magistrate, Baron Ogdstrom, the wealthiest landowner in town. More than one time he had spied the girl through her window, dressed in fine robes and satin, shining like a princess. One day Torin would marry that girl, or so he told himself.

One day... if he ever got up the courage to talk to her.

Torin searched through the cupboards and found a loaf of bread which was hard, but still edible, and thus went to work cutting it into slices.  In a town as small as Iskarvena there weren’t many choices for potential mates. The only other girl in town close to his age was Gaewen, whose family owned the local inn. She was a few years younger, shorter and a bit more plump around the edges than Mehgan, but not by much. She had a round face and a mane of wild red hair which burned like bonfires in the twilight. Plus from what he’d heard of the two, Gaewen was definitely the better cook. Such was a trait to be considered when wife-hunting, Torin thought to himself. He couldn’t live on soggy oats and stale bread for the rest of his life.

The two had been childhood friends, and many around the village had assumed they would eventually wed. Many days in their youth went by when they would camp out for the night and lay together in the fields beneath the stars, and tell each other stories they’d heard (and sometimes, invented) about heroes, monsters, and distant lands. Yet despite her beauty Torin couldn’t really bring himself to think about her in such a way, the girl was more akin to a little sister than potential mate. Also, his brother Torey had definitely taken an interest in her. They would make a good couple, he thought to himself. _She’s closer to Torey’s age anyway._

The young man let his mind wander about women and things to be as he placed a few wet logs upon the hearth. Normally wood this damp wouldn’t light, but he had a trick which could take care of that. Once the wood was in place, Torin rolled up his selves, narrowed his eyes, and stretched his arm towards the hearth, with the palm outward.

“Incendaria” he whispered.

A small flame crackled out through his palm and raced through the air, seemingly dancing as if alive, before striking the damp logs and instantly lighting them afire. Torin let himself a small smile, not so much for the trick he’d just performed rather than the fact that he knew his father would be furious at him for it. Torin prepared the oats in a large cast iron pot and placed it over the fire to cook. He sprinkled a pinch of salt and spices into them before placing the lid on to let it steam, the same way his mother used to do it years before.

Mother, she was the one with the power. Father never spoke of it, but she was a witch, from the fabled city of Caldeum, the jewel of the desert. She was the one who taught Torin his simple tricks, how to light fires, how to freeze water, how to make things float in mid-air. She was the one who saw potential in him. His younger brother Torey didn’t have the gift, she had told him, but he did, and one day with practice he would be able to do great things. And so she continued to school Torin in the magical arts despite the objections of her husband, until that fateful day five years ago, when Hell itself seemed to spill out onto the Earth...

Yes, today he’d go into town with father, and would no doubt spend the day relentlessly pounding hot irons into farm equipment. Not that anyone could do any actual farming in the middle of winter. Still, spring was less than six weeks away, and the first thaws had already begun. Soon the shop would be bustling with grubby farmers purchasing new shovels or mending broken pick-axes, and father liked to be prepared.

Several years from now he could see himself in this very house, with a trade and a wife, raising children of his own. It could be a good life, if he’d only reach out and take it.

Yet for some reason while the oats steamed and his life lay planned out before him, Torin’s gaze kept crawling - as it often did -  out of the kitchen window, down the road, and over the horizon.

 

******

 

To Torin, the pounding of iron sounded like church bells. Loud, jarring, annoying church bells that shook one to their very core and set the ears ringing for hours afterward. Each impact of the hammer upon the hot metal seemed to shake him from his teeth to the bones in his feet. It was with profound relief that father called to break for the midday meal.

He and his brother walked through the muddy lane on the way to the Red Stallion, which was the town’s only inn, and the only place in Iskarvena where one could obtain a decent ale. Torey of course was always eager to visit the Red Stallion, as it was pretty red-headed Gaewen’s family who owned the inn.

It occurred to Torin that he’d only actually heard such bells one time in his entire life. He’d been to a Zakarum church once, over ten years ago when he and father had made the trek down to Westmarch to trade in the market. The church was a massive building, nearly five stories tall, with huge towers and a doorway that seemed large enough to admit the whole world. The outside was covered in statuary depicting various things – men, angels, beasts, and even demons, arranged in reliefs which told the story of Zakarum to passersby. Then the bells rang, and the skies filled with their crystal clear chime, almost as if it were the song of the angels themselves.  It seemed the most beautiful sound in the world.

This trip to Westmarch is the farthest he’d ever travelled from home. He’d spent nearly his entire life inside Iskarvena’s borders, or within the outlying lands, never more than a few leagues from home. It also occurred to him that his younger brother Torey has never seen a church, never heard church bells, never seen a building larger than the Baron’s paltry, run-down manor, or had never even seen a statue beyond the ugly tarnished copper figure of Barron Ogdstrom’s great grandfather in front of the magistrate’s office. Torey didn’t seem one to take to travel. He could very well live his entire life in Iskarvena, and never experience such things first hand.

Then Torin considered all the things that exist in this large world that he himself had never seen, and would probably die without seeing. The thought was not very comforting.

At the Red Stallion, many patrons had gathered for their daily luncheon. The menu today consisted of roast pheasant and barley stew. Torin and his brother sat at stools at the bar. The counter was made from a log split in half, then sanded and polished to a fine finish. The Inn was one large hall, larger than most of the houses in town, with a few simple but well-built tables in front of a grand, roaring fireplace. Large barrels of ale lined the wall behind the bar, along with a shelf that held more expensive, imported spirits, which few in town had the gold to enjoy.

“Father wants you to go down to the quarry today and fetch a load of ore after we’re done here” Torin said in-between mouthfuls of pheasant. Torey hated hauling ore. This was an opinion he expressed frequently, to anyone who would listen.

“What? Why do I have to go?” Torey replied. “I thought he was going to teach me how to smelt iron today!”

“We can’t smelt any iron if we don’t have any ore, now can we?” Torin replied dryly. “Father probably thinks you’re still too small to do any of the real work. Maybe he just wants you to build your muscles up. You can’t swing that stupid hammer if you’re not strong enough.”

“I’m strong enough.” Torey replied sullenly, as he took a large gulp of barley stew. “I’ll be the best blacksmith ever one day.”

“No doubt you will,” replied a sweet voice from the redhead behind the counter. “More tea?”  Gaewen pushed back her curling red hair from her speckled face, and bent low as she refilled their mugs with red leaf tea, giving Torin a view of her ample bosom. She did this on purpose, nearly every time the two spoke, and he was growing ever so slightly annoyed.

Torey really didn’t seem to mind though. “Do you have any blackroot stew back there?” Torey piped. He didn’t really like her stew that much as his brother, but never missed an opportunity to compliment the red headed girl.

“Why, my barley stew not good enough for you?”  she retorted as she made an exaggerated, pouty face. Torey seemed suddenly alarmed as the two made eye contact, then grew red in his cheeks, and attacked the stew with great vigor.

“But I can make some tonight, for dinner?”  Gaewen turned back to Torin, “That is, if you’re coming back?”

The door to the inn swung open, and in walked the two people Torin liked least in this world. Two large, dirty, ugly, smelly barbarians, vagabonds from the western tribes that had immigrated to the surrounding area five years ago. The shorter one had a face full of pimples, the other bore an uncanny resemblance to a warthog. Torin had never bothered to learn their names, so he just made up his own, _Pig-Face_ and _Pimple-Face_. They usually hung around an even larger barbarian named Oslar, of which Torin was happy to note was absent. Large, rude, and usually filthy, these particular barbarians had recently made a habit of frequenting the Red Stallion, as it was the only pub within ten leagues.

Barbarians, with their penchant for rash decisions, hard drinking, and unadulterated violence, had a way of making “normal” folk uncomfortable. Torin had assumed they had a settlement of some kind nearby, but to seek it out had been absolutely forbidden by his father. Rumors abounded of their harassing travelers and raiding caravans, however they had so far left his village alone. What was there of value in this place to steal?

Torin smelled the pimply man well before he took a seat next to him, a musty stench of body odor, alcohol, and filth. Pimple-face seemed to be swaying slightly as he sat down. _It’s hardly mid-day yet._ _Can these idiots be drunk already?_

“So, how be thee, blacksmith?” Pimple-face gurgled. “Shouldn’t you be down in the shop, in case somebody wants to mend a shovel or something?”

Torin held his tongue, and ate another piece of pheasant. He’d long ago learned to grow a thick skin, especially when dealing with these two troublemakers. Torey however was a lot younger and a much less versed in the skill of tact.

“What’s it to you, Pimple-face?” He retorted.

“Puglis, did you hear something?” The Pimple-faced barbarian said. “It sounded like a mouse squeaking near my boot.”

“So it is!” responded his pig-faced companion. “Maybe we should teach him a lesson?” In one swift motion the pig-faced vagabond snatched the bowl from Torey’s hands and held it up high, where the younger boy could not reach.

“Give that back you swine!” yelped Torey, desperately grabbing for his bowl of stew.

“Give it back, ‘e says! Aye, have it you shall. Methinks it’s time for a bath!” laughed Pig-Face, who then swiftly proceeded to upend the bowl of stew onto Torey’s head, spilling barley and vegetables all over him and on the surrounding bartop. Several patrons at a nearby table quickly stood up to avoid the associated splatter as the two miscreants howled with laughter. Torey’s eyes met his big brother’s, and were nearly full of tears. The unspoken message was clear between the two, _Do something!_

Torin stood up slowly, put his serving knife down, and handed his brother a bar rag. He gave the two troublemakers a dirty look, and kept his eyes on them while he spoke.

“Clean yourself off, brother, and let’s be on our way.”

Despite their clownish behavior, these two young men were of the Barbarian race, and as such were born warriors. They spent their lives training in the ancient arts of war from the time they could walk. Torin was well aware of his limitations. _I’m no_ _fighter_ , he reminded himself. He doubted that he could physically best even one of them, even in their seemingly inebriated state. Fighting both of them together was certainly a losing proposition. If even by some miracle if it came to blows and he did come out the victor, then he’d have _Oslar_ to contend with.

Still, the sight of these two dirty simpletons laughing at his brother filled him with rage. Perhaps he could mutter a small firebolt spell, just enough to light Pimple-Face’s pants on fire? The thought of him running around with a burning ass, yelping for water like a moron while he and his brother laughed took the edge off Torin’s anger for a moment, just long enough to consider the consequences if the townspeople actually found out about his “talent.”

 _That can’t be allowed to happen_ , he thought. _I’d be an outcast_.

The Pig-Faced barbarian ( _Puglis, was his name_ , Torin noted, although he didn’t care much to remember it,) stood up off his barstool and locked stares with him. The filthy cur was inebriated, yet that did nothing to make him look less intimidating. It would be suicide to try and fight this man.

Yet a part of him screamed at him to do it anyway, because sometimes the pain was worth it.

“You care to make something of it?” Puglis sneered.

Gaewen choose this moment to intervene in the conversation. This wouldn’t be the first time she’d had to separate these particular delinquents from her friends before violence broke out. She set down two large steins of house ale with a loud clank onto the bar a further distance away from Torin and his brother.

“You two, drinks are ready for you,” she said in a loud voice, “Over here!”

Pimple-Face stood up, swayed a bit, then grabbed Pig-Face by the arm, then dragged him over to the other end of the bar. “Come Puglis, let that weakling be,” he belched. “Drinks today are on me.”

Torin slowly turned his head, keeping his eyes locked with Pig-Face until the last moment. When they were safely away (and out of earshot,) he sat back down and continued his meal. He tried to make conversation, but his brother was no longer in the mood, and the two of them ate in silence for the remainder of the hour. Gaewen provided the younger brother with a fresh towel, and another bowl of stew. As she refilled Torin’s teacup the two made eye contact briefly. She had been his friend long enough to read his look at a glance. _Thank you._

Torey ate his food in sullen silence, without another glance at the two barbarians, who had since consumed several more tankards of ale. That barbarian dog  had made him look like a fool in front of the girl he loved! _I’ll get that swine, one day._

As for Torin, well he loved his brother deeply, he told himself. He looked up to him, as he was the smartest man he could name. But it shamed him all the same when he realized his brother was a coward.

 

******

 

 _Why do I always have to carry the damn rocks?_ thought Torey, as he lugged a basket full of heavy ore up the stony hill. The road made a particular turn down below to navigate through a gorge before emerging at the top of this hill out of the other side, and taking this short cut would save Torey many hours of walking. None of this made the climb any less bearable however. _Torin is bigger and stronger than me, why doesn’t father make him get the stupid rocks?_

In the basket of course were no ordinary rocks, but iron ore mined at the base of nearby mount Katarraht, which meant it was ore of very decent quality. For some reason which he didn’t understand this made them seem heavier than normal rocks. Still, father had sent him on this errand, and if he knew what was good for him he’d do his best.

Torey dug his heels in a bit deeper and continued to trudge up the hill. At thirteen years of age he took  after his father’s side, more stout and stocky of build than his older brother, with a shaggy mop of dark hair that seemed to defy all means of taming it. Unlike his brother he actually appreciated the blacksmithing lessons their father taught them, and did his best to learn. The elder brother’s mind always was on other things, myths and legends, and old superstitious tales. Father seemed set on leaving the shop to the senior brother, but it appeared that he really didn’t want to inherit the family business. Which of course, was just fine with Torey. He’d gladly take it over if Torin didn’t want it. _Seems like he’d be happier as a storyteller than a blacksmith_.

 _One day,_ he thought, _One day it will be all mine. I’ll be the finest blacksmith in the land, and I’ll forge weapons even the gods will fear._ Visions of giant steel clad warriors filled his mind,  wielding fantastic weapons - his weapons - glistening, jewel encrusted swords, massive spears, giant, double bladed axes, striking down hideous evil fire breathing demons, like the ones who killed his mother five years ago. She was so beau-

Torey stepped on a loose rock which gave way beneath him, sending him head over heels backwards down the stony hill. The basket of iron ore spilled to one side as he rolled and tumbled, striking his head several different times, until he came to a twenty foot drop. He just had time to see the jagged rocks beneath him and realize there was no way out, before he suddenly came to a stop.

 

******

 

Torey hung motionless in the air, inches above the large sharp boulders at the bottom of the gorge he’d just fallen down. For a moment his mind had trouble realizing exactly what was happening. Was this a dream? Was he dead? Is this what happens to people when they die?

Over the next few moments the pain in his head and hard breathing in his chest told him he was still alive, and although he still could not believe what he was seeing, he came to accept the fact that he was suspended in mid air.

“Uhhh.... Hello?” he said, partially not expecting a response. Could he be dreaming? Had he hit his head too hard? Torey took a deep breath, and felt the bump on his head. His breath frosted and the cold air stung his lungs, but he was alive, and awake. He began to slowly raise farther up into the air, and moved over the road by some invisible force he could not comprehend. Just as slowly he was spun around, and that’s when he saw the ugly man at the covered wagon.

The man was short and stumpy, with a face full of knots and welts. Torey doubted he was much taller than himself, although he looked to be far older. He was at the reigns of a covered wagon that was crafted in an unfamiliar style, full of strange angular shapes with sharp points. The simple canvas coverings were not suitable shelter for the weather one encounters in the Dreadlands. The wagon also seemed to be covered in strange writing and designs which Torey had never seen before.

Next to him stood a much taller man dressed in red and black robes. The robes were of a light linen, hardly protection from the ice and snow, yet the man did not seem the slightest bit inconvenienced by the cold. The garment was also covered in the same type of symbols as the wagon. His head was shaven, except for one long braid which began at the apex of this neck. He was holding his hand out in the air.

“Who are you? Put me down!” Torey cried.

The tall man turned his hand over, and as he did so did Torey’s body, until his feet were pointing down at the ground, after which the man dropped his hand, and Torey followed. Although it was a drop of only a few feet, Torey collapsed onto his knees afterwards, the pain in his head still throbbing.

The tall man walked forward, and placed his hand on Torey’s head.

“What are you - “ he began.

“Silence” the tall man blurted out, with such authority in his voice that Torey instantly obeyed. “Do not move your head until I am done.”

“ALSHEFAAH!” the tall man bellowed. Instantly Torey saw a pale red light in front of his eyes, then an incredible warm feeling descended from his head and covered his whole body. The pain in his head vanished, along with all his aches and pains from the climb. He stood up refreshed, and felt like he’d just gotten a good night’s sleep.

“How did you do that?” He asked, as he stared dumbfounded in the wizard’s eyes.

“Boy, I am in need of a horse, for my wagon. Ours starved to death.” The wizard spoke. His tone made Torey feel that he’d somehow did something wrong. He had an expressionless face, but a foul look in his eyes which made him feel uncomfortable.

“Gahrain the stable master has horses for rent.” Torey replied. “If you’d follow me back to Iskarvena I can show you where.”

The short lumpy man looked eager to come along, but the tall man dismissed him with a wave of his hand. “Rodolpho, stay with the wagon.” he barked, without even looking in the deformed man’s direction. “Lead the way, child. And be quick. I must procure a horse and be on my way before nightfall.”

Torey did not like the idea of bringing this sorcerer back to town. Although magical ability was not unheard of even in such an isolated place such as Iskarvena, (as even Torey’s own departed mother had possessed some ability, although father had forbid her from using it) most “common” folk still held a deep distrust of those who developed such gifts. Many in town were filled with superstitions, and would be fearful of a man like this. Torey thought of just running away, but then he’d have to come back here later for the ore anyway, and who’s to say what the wizard would do to stop him? He could freeze him in his tracks, or turn him into a snail or something.  Still, the tall man had saved his life and healed him of his wounds, the least he could do in return was to help him procure a horse.

 _Besides_ , he thought to himself, _What’s the worst that could happen?_

 

******

 

“Torey! Come over here! Now!” bellowed Ivan. He had been immediately suspicious of the tall man accompanying his son into town. The man had a foreign look about him, from southern parts near the vast deserts Ivan reckoned.  The clothes he wore were unlike any that many in this part of the world had ever seen, long and flowing, and obviously no good for the cold. Yet he walked through the muddy streets without a hint of discomfort, his head held high like one accustomed to privilege. He obviously was in possession of great wealth, something else the simple folk in these parts were unaccustomed to. Men like this had no business traveling through the Dreadlands.

Torey pointed to a group of low buildings, some distance down the road. “The stable master is there,” he said. “I have to go.” Torey took a last look at the tall man before leaving, who gave him the slightest of nods, almost as one does to dismiss a servant. He was silently relieved to be away from him. The way the wizard looked upon him felt like spiders crawling on his skin.

As the robed traveler walked off into town to attend to his business, Ivan wasted no time with his wayward son, immediately grabbing him by the ear and hauling him inside.

“Where have you been? I sent you off hours ago! And who’s that outlander you’re with? How many times have I told you to not talk to strange folk?”

“But he saved my life father!” cried Torey. “I fell down a cliff and then-“

“No excuses!” Ivan scolded Torey and sent him inside. At least he had returned with the ore, so the day was not a complete loss. But the boy would need to be punished in some way. Ivan spied the wizard’s back as he made his way into town. The man _was_ a wizard, the strange symbols on his long, crimson robes left no doubt about it. Torey was just a child, he didn’t understand that just associating with the likes of men like that could be dangerous. In this world trouble had a way of following in the wake of such people, and “normal” folk like Ivan and his family often found themselves caught in the crossfire. Men like this left bodies in their wake. Even his own wife had dabbled in the magical arts, and look at where it got her!

His wife… she was from the southern deserts also. She’d fancied herself a sorceress, and ran the village sick house, healing the injured with salves and potions, driving out disease with the blessings of angels and gods. When the mountain spewed ash and fire and the demons ransacked the countryside, she didn’t run with the other women and children. She stayed to fight with the men, and Ivan had allowed her, because of her abilities. She had trusted her _magic_ , and it failed her.

Yes, nothing good could come from such folk in Iskarvena, that he was sure of.

 

******

 

The tall wizard, draped in resplendent black and red robes and carrying an ornate, golden staff, stuck out in such a place where folks were as plain as Iskarvena.  As he glided through the narrow snow covered street heads turned, passersby stopped and stared, curious eyes peeked through curtained windows. A stranger in town was news enough, but one so exotic quickly set tongues wagging. The man’s clothes alone probably cost more gold than most in town earned in a year, and the staff could feed a family here for several winters. Many gossiping onlookers watched the outsider, yet he walked as one without the slightest concern, as a master does among servants.

Torin lugged two buckets attached to a yoke over his shoulders, off to fill them at the town’s central well. The center of Iskarvena held what passed for the town square, and there several merchants hocked their austere wares - clothing, fresh vegetables, horse feed, and so on. Torin’s father had set up the smith shop not far away. Near the end of the square lay the Red Stallion. Maybe he would take Gaewen up on her offer and come by later for some blackroot stew. Or maybe later he would stop by Mehgan’s house. Of course since she lived on the other side of the village he had no excuse for doing so. He would have to make something up.

Torin was trying to decide if he liked Gaewen’s cooking more than Mehgan’s beauty, when he saw the wizard stride past him.

The robed figure was a sorcerer of great ability, this he knew instinctively. It wasn’t the clothes or the staff which told him the man had skill in magic, it was the way the man felt. He could _feel_ the energy radiating off the stranger, almost as if invisible waves of power emanated from him, like ripples in a pond. It was obvious this man could do things far beyond the simple tricks Torin had learned from his mother. This was a man of great stature and wealth, what could he possibly be doing in the Dreadlands?

The wizard was speaking with old Gahrain the stable master. A small crowd had gathered around the two, close enough to eavesdrop but far enough away to pretend not to be. Torin himself busied himself by drawing water at the well, but not too quickly. He too was curious as to this man’s business. He was so engrossed in trying to not appear too curious that he hardly noticed when the wizard looked directly at him.

Suddenly a small rock whizzed by Torin’s head, while another splunked into one of the buckets at his feet. Out of the corner of his eye he spotted Oslar and his two idiot friends, _Pig-Face_ and _Pimple-Face_. They were sitting on a bench outside of the Red Stallion, gulping tankards of ale and joking loudly, and pointing at his direction. Oslar was very large for his age, as were most of his kind, with huge arms and a growth of long hair with the bangs cut in front, as was common among his ilk.

The pimply one was pointing at Torin.

“You missed! Ha! You’re buying the next round!” he chortled.

“He moved at the last second,” Pig-Face retorted. “Hey blacksmith-welp! Stand still!” He reached down to pick up another rock, then drunkenly fell face first into a pile of mud, which elicited roars of laughter from the other two.

Torin made a crude gesture at them, then quickly positioned himself on the other side of the well as to better dodge any more unexpected projectiles. Torin had only spoken to Olsar a few times but the two had already formed a severe disliking of each other. Oslar himself was only a few summers older than the blacksmith’s son but was a full head and shoulders above him in height. Barbarians were naturally large and strong, and had a fierce reputation. Their one goal in life was to die in glorious battle, yet it seemed more likely that Oslar would die in a drunken tavern brawl. More than once the town magistrate has had to throw the young barbarian and his inebriated friends from the Red Stallion in the middle of the night. Oslar had been threatened with the stockade many times for his rabble rousing.

 _They’re bullies_ , thought Torin. _Simply drunken bullies, with no ambition for the future_. Torin ignored them and went back to filling his buckets. He had lingered here too long.

But like everyone else in the town square, Oslar and his kin also kept a close eye on the sorcerer, and when the man made a purchase of the stable master for two sickly looking horses with pure gold, they spied his coin sack with hungry eyes.

 

******

 

Early that evening Torin found himself back at the Red Stallion again. His work done for the day, he had managed to sneak away and thought about securing a few ales for himself. To his disappointment it appeared as if Gaewen was not working the night, instead plump Mr. Ironheart manned the counter while his stout wife Gwenn worked the kitchen. In the corner stood a large brown stuffed bear, nearly twice as tall as a man, of which Mr. Ironheart himself had hunted down as a youth, a tale which he often still bragged about. Torin drank his ale and ate delicious Blackroot stew, and engaged in pleasant conversation with the few locals that were present.

The door swung open, and in sauntered a drunken Oslar and his two barbarian cohorts. Torin always wondered why he could smell these three minutes before he could see them. _Just what I need_ , he thought. He was in no mood to deal with these miscreants, _again._

And then Torin saw something which felt as if a red hot iron had suddenly pierced his heart with a thousand cuts. Dangling from the arm of that big, ugly, dirty, uncouth barbarian mongrel was Mehgan, her golden hair flowing over her shoulders, dressed in a simple blue gown which accented her figure in all the right ways. She appeared to be slightly tipsy as well. _What the hell is she doing with that filthy vagabond!_

“Barkeep!” Bellowed Oslar, “An ale for a warrior and his thirsty friends!” Mr. Ironheart eyed the tall youth suspiciously, but after the barbarian placed a few coppers on the bar with a beefy hand, he then began to draw their beverages. After staring for a long moment, Torin turned his back to them, and returned to his stew. He made a secret prayer to any god that would listen that he could remain on his stool unnoticed by the inebriated group who had just sat down not four seats away from him.

“Torin!” piped Mehgan, a large smile on her face. “Torin how are you? I didn’t see you there.”

“Hello.” Torin said meekly. He turned back to his stew.

“Come over here and have a drink with us!” Squealed Mehgan. “We’re celebrating!”

“Celebrating what, exactly?” the sandy haired youth replied. He glanced at Mehgan with an eye of concern.

Mr.Ironheart placed four ales on the bar top in front of them. The three barbarians immediately picked them up and quickly chugged them down, grunting with large smiles. Mehgan took a long draught on her own mug of ale, then wiped off a bit of froth onto her sleeve. “We celebrate my last night in Iskarvena. Soon I will be away from this dreary place.”

“What are you talking about?” _She’s nearly drunk_ , _if not already,_ thought Torin. The idea of what this idiot barbarian was doing with his woman filled him with silent rage. _What lies is that miscreant filling her head with?_

Oslar chose this moment to interject himself into their conversation by wrapping his arm around the girl’s waist. She didn’t seem to mind.

“That’s none of your concern, blacksmith. Go back to your stew and leave us be.” He shook his tankard into his mouth and supped up the few remaining drops of ale.

“I’m not a blacksmith.” Torin mumbled. “Not yet, anyway.”

“Aye, what are you then? Fancy yourself a warrior, do you?” squealed Oslar’s pig faced friend. “Mayhaps you dream of the adventuring life? Fighting demons and slaying dragons?”

“What, him?” Replied the pimply one. “That welp couldn’t hit a sand maggot if it were crawling on him.” The pimply youth stood up, and emptied his tankard, then slammed it on the bar. “Look at him, he’s never held a sword in his life. He’s a pampered, lilly-livered, baby faced, tenderfoo-WAUGH!” The pimply barbarian found it hard to complete his sentence as he drunkenly fell face first onto the bar, eliciting peels of laughter from several tables nearby.

“I am capable of defending myself,” Torin said. “And apparently holding my liquor much better than you.” _They’re drunk, again_ he thought to himself. The thought of Mehgan gallivanting around with this troop of scoundrels filled him with rage. _Maybe, if they get drunk enough_...

“Aye, mayhaps he’d like to come with us?” The dirty pig-faced barbarian spat out in-between gulping generous quantities of ale. “What say you, Skivis? You think his sword arm is long enough?”

“Long enough for what?” balked Torin.

Oslar stood up, and immediately his pig-faced companion shrank back down. He picked his drunk friend up off the floor and violently thrust him back into the barstool. “Quiet your wagging tongue, Puglis! Do you want the whole damn world to know?”

“Know what?” Torin rudely inquired. _What in the seven hells are these barbarians up to?_

Oslar turned a scheming eye at Torin, then took another long pull of ale. “Go back to your stew, blacksmith.” He turned to his pimply faced, drunken friend, who was now seemingly fascinated with a bowl of salted walnuts. “And you, shut your flapping mouth before I shut it for you!”

 

******

 

Late in the evening, after the family had eaten and Ivan had given both his sons a good lecture about staying away from that wizard if he should come back and the dangers of fiddling with magic in general, the old blacksmith went hunting through the chests in his storeroom. The moon had already set, and his sons would be preparing for bed, if they weren’t asleep already. Ivan continued to look through the different chests and crates, searching as a soft, chilly breeze made the lamplight flicker, until he finally found it.

A small book, bound in black leather, with a large, star-like symbol engraved in the front. Ivan undid the bone-clasp and opened it. Inside the vellum pages felt strange, warm, as if it were still the skin of some living creature. The writing inside was incomprehensible to him, lots of twisting shapes with sharp points that seemed to fold in on themselves. Here and there the book also contained drawings of various subjects, mostly plants and herbs, but also the occasional beast and star chart. But it wasn’t the writing or pictures which had the profound effect on Ivan. It was the scent.

The scent of the book... it was hers. Chantal, his wife’s scent, a wonderful perfume that made his loins burn and his heart ache.  She was small and slender, but with a deceiving strength that he’d learned not to underestimate. She wrote this book, penned these strange symbols and awful spells.

Ivan had found this small tome five years ago, after the tragedy. For ten days and nights fire and ash had rained from the sky, spoiling the air, and blotting out the sun. From out of the darkness came the animals and beasts of the forest, fleeing for their lives in a frantic stampede, the will to survive overriding their usual stealth and shyness. Then came the reports from the surrounding villages (most of which no longer existed) of the unbelievable – strange creatures, hideous monsters, and demons who breathed fire. Refugees streamed into Iskarvena, bearing the marks of rape, pillage, and murder.

And then, on the thirteenth day without a sun, the nightmare began.

They came from the west, an endless, boundless horde, the demon army, hundreds of thousands of dark creatures which defied the imagination and feasted upon all things. They were the army of Baal, the Lord of Destruction, rendered lost and confused by the recent death of their leader and the destruction of the Worldstone. Demons it seemed do not adapt to power vacuums easily, and quickly revert to mindless, undirected destruction when a strong leader able to maintain control is absent. Ever onward they came, destroying all in their path, sparing neither man nor beast, nor the animals in the forest, or even the trees on the hills. It seemed they would advance and consume until the entire world lay as burned and barren as the pits of Hell itself. Against this, the proud, deluded men of this small, insignificant town had chosen to pit their mettle. When Baron Ogdstrom organized the men who would fight into a militia, Ivan had stayed behind to arm them. His two young sons had evacuated along with the other women and children, but Ivan choose to stay to defend his home, along with lovely Chantal. His demands for her to evacuate fell on indignant ears. She would stay to heal the wounded, and that was the last she would hear of it. The Iskarvena militia were poorly armed and organized, but they were brave, and for a moment it looked as if they could beat back the darkness with conviction alone. Looking back it seemed foolish to think mere mortals could stand against such evil.

 _Perhaps I am a fool_ , Ivan thought. _Perhaps I’ve always been a fool._

And fight they did, down to the last man. Wave upon wave of hellspawn crashed into hurriedly erected barricades for three days. Arrows fell from the sky like raindrops. Ivan himself had slain more demons than he had fingers, yet come they still did. It was only a matter of time before they were overrun.

It was the fifteenth day without a sun when the front lines broke and the end began. The arrows and pikes of the militia had prevented any significant number of demonic forces from breaching the town’s defenses. Then without warning the vile hordes drew back. The assault ceased for long hours, enveloping the town in an unnatural silence. Some of the men had dared hope that perhaps the armies of darkness had thought Iskarvena too costly (or too small) of a prize, but all would soon see such hopes were folly.

The front lines of the army of the Lord of Destruction parted, and through them came a monstrosity unnamable. A huge, writhing, disgusting beast, larger than anything Ivan had ever seen, squirmed and wriggled its way over the barricades. Ian could see no eyes on the creature, yet it seemed to find its way without error, as if propelled by some unseen, evil force. Arrows appeared to bounce off its hide, and the thrust of spears was like the stings of a small insect. The massive, obscene thing with its many legs easily crawled over the outer wall, then opened the gargantuan orifice which Ivan assumed was its mouth. And then something else unthinkable occurred- as the creature roared in rage, the legions of hell issued forth from its dark maw. The creature somehow vomited demons up from the burning pits itself, as a wall of water from a broken dam. Many of Ivan’s friends were slain in moments, cut down like cornstalks as they fled for their lives. Yet Ivan himself lived, because of her… Chantal.

When the barricades finally – inevitably – had broken, and the putrid filth of Hell spilled into the streets like water into a bowl, the two of them attempted to flee with the rest. But there were simply too many, and the demon horde would not be denied their meat. Ivan and his wife found themselves holed up with a smattering of others in the upper floors of the magistrate’s office, in what was then the town’s central keep. There Ivan fought side by side with the remaining men to keep the doors battered and his wife safe, but it was a losing battle, and they all knew it. What he did not know was the lengths in which Chantal would go in order to preserve his safety.

On the sixteenth day without a sun, the doors to the keep were breached, and the men of Iskarvena gave their final stand against the Army of the Lord of Destruction. The battle was intense, confined in the narrow halls of the old baron’s Keep, and though the casualties inflicted upon the invaders were great, their losses were greater still.

It was when there were only three defenders left, - Ivan, Baron Ogdstrom, Chantal herself, that the witch decided to act. Cornered in an upstairs storeroom with dozens of vile fiends filling the halls, she had suddenly thrust herself forward and screamed an arcane incantation. Ivan found himself dazzled by a garish, unnatural light, then saw all of the demons in the hall in front of them writhing in pain as their flesh burned away in unnatural flames. A small victory which had extended their lives for a precious few moments more, but at a great price, as the magical flames turned all too ordinary as they ate up the tapestries and spread to the walls.

The three of them made their way to the roof and saw the demon horde spread out below them, like an ocean of writhing, unholy worms. Below them the floors of the old keep began to give way and flames licked their heels. It was then that the woman he loved turned to Ivan for the last time, and kissed him goodbye.

“Take care of our boys,” she whispered in his ear, as her fingers traced magical lines through the air in front of them. Before Ivan could object both he and the Baron found themselves whisked through the air, like leaves on the wind, while demons continued pouring from the burning forest far below. The two were propelled slowly and softly, high in the sky like birds, yet not far enough away to see a witch’s final act of defiance.

The flames whipped up from the keep, higher and higher, consuming the roof and everything below. Ivan thought his wife gone, until finally the flames took on the shape of Chantal herself, screaming with wild abandon, before they swept down in a tidal wave, eradicating the vile fiends and washing them away like pebbles tossed into a stream. Demons and monsters and other unnamable things fled through the streets as their unholy bodies were consumed by the unstoppable wave of arcane fire. The force was such that it succeeded in turning away the demonic hordes and saving what was left of the small town, at the cost of all Ivan held dear.

Many days later when the sun finally appeared, those who could not fight returned to find their homes in ruins. Most of the buildings in what was left of the town were burned out husks, buried under feet of ash. And around them all lay the evidence of his Chantal’s final gambit, the corpses of hundreds upon hundreds of slain demonspawn, their bones still burning for days afterward.

Ivan found himself lucky as his home was merely ransacked, the few items of worth stolen. Afterwards when the survivors attempted to put their lives back together, he found himself dwelling on what he’d witnessed. Chantal’s sacrifice had filled him with awe, and with fear. The woman he’d saved from a slaver in far away Caldeum, who dazzled him with simple magician’s tricks and stolen his heart with her deep, crystal blue eyes, the woman with whom he’d fathered two children and whose talent was to cure the sick and heal the lame, was forever gone. In her place remained only the fearsome witch who commanded powers beyond his understanding, who could slay devils and monsters with incantations arcane and foul, and who used such powers to save his life so he could die an old man while she burned in the pits tortured by demons for all eternity. Try as he might, whenever he closed his eyes he no longer saw the beautiful face of his wife, only the fearsome countenance of the sorceress.

It was a memory Ivan couldn’t live with. In the weeks and months to come, he decided to start his life anew. He’d been busy throwing out all of his wife’s things - all her clothes, and jewelry, and anything else which could remind him of her, even down to the pots and pans in the kitchen. But this book, the minute he touched it he somehow knew he was supposed to keep it, and put it someplace for safe keeping. For some reason this book, and this book only, brought back the memory of the woman he loved, and not the sorceress he feared. Merely thinking of it had allowed him to remember her the way he should have.

 _For Torin_ , he said to himself. Chantal would have wanted it that way.

 

******

 

Deep in the snowy hills, three barbarians fought for their very lives.

To an outside observer that’s how it appeared. The three attacked each other with what appeared to be deadly accuracy. Swords flashed, thrusts were parried, and blows landed. More than once each of them fell to the earth and stood at the mercy of one of the others.

But the killing blow never came. In reality the three were playing a simple game, a training exercise. Although they trained with weapons unsheathed and were inebriated enough to hardly remain standing, they still retained enough skill to avoid the truly lethal blows. The occasional cut or wound was often a source of embarrassment the next day.

In this particular session however Oslar had definitely gained the upper hand on his two sparring partners. Not only was he generally regarded as the most skilled among the three, he also had not consumed nearly as much ale as the other two. From his left Skivis attacked with a slow, clumsy blow, leaving him far too much time to parry and send him sprawling with a swift kick to his midsection. From his right Puglis charged in with a mighty shout and overhead swing, tripped, completely overshot the mark, and ran headfirst into a tree. With a snicker, Oslar sent him into the mud with a hard boot to his behind.

“You mangy dogs! You call that fighting?” he admonished his defeated friends. You’ve both drunk far too much. Go home the both of you and sober up before we-“

“Before what?” came a bellowing voice behind him.  He knew who the voice belonged to before he turned around.

From behind him towered a giant. Nearly seven feet tall, arms coiled like snakes, his steel hand wrapped around the handle of his battleaxe. Kothar was his name, the most fierce of the Wolf tribe, and Oslar’s older brother.

“That is none of your concern, brother.” Oslar said in a respectful tone. Olsar himself was considered large for his age, but even he looked like a small twig before the imposing form of his elder sibling.

Kothar knew the look in his younger brother’s eyes very well. “I will not stand for another of your idiotic schemes,” bellowed the larger barbarian. “I am the elder brother. You will tell me what you are planning, or I will beat it out of you.”

Oslar drew his sword and stood his ground, but when he spoke, he could not manage to mask the ever so slight tremble in his voice. “Come and try it then,” he replied.

The two brothers circled each other for a few moments, weapons drawn at the ready, practicing a dance they had done a thousand times. Steel clashed as the two feinted, testing each other’s defenses. Then with a movement just as sudden Oslar threw himself headlong, committing himself to an overhead blow.

His attack was swift enough that Kothar was forced to guard, using the broad side of his axe like a shield to deflect. He whipped his axe around in a motion which seemed too quick for a weapon of his size and went for Oslar’s head, however the younger brother had anticipated this move, and had already safely rolled away, turning his movement into a flowing slash across Kothar’s midsection.

 _Well done brother_ , the larger barbarian thought as he was forced to deflect another series of blows and slashes. Kothar took note that his brother’s fighting ability had noticeably improved in recent months, and he couldn’t help but feel a bit of pride.

He began to press the attack, slashing and kicking, his axe coming within inches of striking multiple fatal blows, but always stopped at the last second by his brother’s sword. Then the younger brother would return the assault, hacking and stabbing with his broadsword. And so it went for several minutes more, and one who was witnessing the battle would not be mistaken to see the two as evenly matched.

 _Time to end this,_ Kothar said to himself. Without breaking stride he parried a blow, spun around, and sent Oslar crashing into a tree with a swift kick to the back. Such was Oslar’s ability that within a heartbeat he was up and back on the attack.

“Now we’ll see what you have truly learned” roared Kothar. With a mighty shout, the elder barbarian charged headlong at his brother. The younger sibling leaped out of the way at what seemed the last moment, barely dodging the downward swing of Kothar’s huge battleaxe. Oslar rolled to the side and took a defensive stance, but before he could react Kothar was on him again, slamming into him with a fierce charge. This time Oslar met the charge head on with an overhead swing of his sword, forcing the larger barbarian to parry. Sparks erupted from grinding steel as their weapons interlocked and the two wrestled for dominance, the battle now a contest of pure strength.

For several long moments the two seemed stalemated, pushing and wrestling, kicking up dirt and snow, until Kothar finally threw his brother down and emerged the victor. Oslar’s sword fell from his hand, and he knew he was defeated.

“Well fought brother! I fear you may overtake me one day yet. But not on this day.” With these words Kothar placed his boot on his brother’s chest to stop him from rising, and swung his huge battle axe inches away from his face.” Now  you will tell me what you and these other miscreants are plotting!”


	2. Chapter II: The Mad Wizard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Barbarian Kothar clashes with the mad wizard Zoldar, but is unable to prevent him from uncovering the lair of the exiled demon and claiming his prize.

Deep in the dark recesses of his mind, Zodar explored countless untamed worlds, soared the dark skies of dream, and dredged through the terrible chasms of imagination. Much time has passed since he first began this journey, but soon the stars would be set, and the time would be right to complete his work.

 _The time could not come soon enough_ , thought Zodar. Soon he would have all the power he would need, and his imagination would be reality.

Zodar sat cross legged on the floor of his wooden wagon, as it slowly dredged up an ice covered mountainside. He was tall and well built, lean and hardy of body, still wearing the black and red robes of a distinguished wizard fitting of his station of the Vizjeri clan, but these days class or privilege no longer met anything to him. The robes were merely clothes, and a reminder of his life before his discovery.

The Vizjeri... The thought of those old dottering fools made his blood boil, chattering among themselves like a smattering of drunken jungle birds, holding him back with their unfounded fears and superstitions! They wouldn’t let him continue with his work back in Caldeum, they wanted his power for themselves! But he won’t let them have it. _It will be mine!_ Zodar screamed inside his mind. The imaginary universe trembled. _It will all be mine! Then those imbeciles will learn what true power is!_

Still in a light trance, the wizard extended outwards with his mind’s eye, in order to take stock of his surroundings. Such remote viewing was a simple yet highly useful skill which most acolytes learned by mid level. All around nothing in this lifeless country but rocks and snow and ice, for miles. The Dreadlands have certainly earned their reputation as one of the most desolate lands in Sanctuary. Who would voluntarily live in such a dreary place?

The wind whipped outside the thin canvas which covered his wagon, as his lowly assistant Rodolpho steered up the icy mountain path. Normally such coverings would be an inadequate protection from the elements in such climes, but a simple spell had seen to that. Both he and Roldolpho had naught to fear from the cold.

In his mind’s eye the wizard looked over his malformed ward. Rodolpho was very strong, but also ugly and slow of mind. He had taken pity on the poor creature when his parents had left him as a small child in the desert sands outside of Caldeum to be devoured by the Sand Maggots. Despite his unfortunate breeding Rodolpho was a good servant, and did what he was told without question.  He was a fool, but a loyal fool. Perhaps when his work was done Zodar would even let him live.

Yes, his work. That is all that mattered to him now. It had been nearly a year before,  after studying that which was forbidden in the Arcane Repositories deep under the Mage’s Citadel in Caldeum, that Zodar discovered what truly lay under the ice of the desolate Dreadlands. That the reason why the Dreadlands were so desolate was because they were the site of an ancient battle between the High Heavens and the Burning Hells which had taken place so long ago as to have faded from legend.

And that the result of the battle was the key to ultimate power. _It will be mine!_

Up the narrow mountain road the covered wagon struggled, a sheer drop to oblivion on one side, pulled by a trio of skinny, wretched rented colts. Zodar examined the malnourished animals with his mind’s eye. To one used to the fine royal stallions at the palace of Caldeum these pitiful things could hardly be called horses.  Pathetic animals they were, hardly worth the ten gold pieces their owner demanded of them back in the deplorable little village at the foot of the mountain. The stable master was also small and lumpy, with a big bulbous nose and rotten teeth. Zodar had considered sending an ice shard through the man’s heart if not for all the onlookers gawking at him. Apparently the arrival of someone who bathes more than once a decade is such a rare occasion that the entire town felt the need to stand nearby and gawk at him as he made his negotiations with the stable master. Or perhaps it’s just that those poor degenerates unfortunate enough to live in such a backwards, flea-bitten rat hole have so few visitors that _anyone_ who passes through warrants such attention. Thus were the peoples of the Dreadlands, dirty, uncultured, uneducated curs, unable to comprehend even the simplest of civilized concepts, such as hygiene.

There was the one boy at the well, however. He had the potential for magical skill, however small. Zoldar could feel the magic within the boy, and knew the boy could feel it emanate from himself as well. The Vizjeri called it “the mark,” that which separated the sorcerer from the common folk. Not all who could wield magic had it, but those who had possessed the potential for great things. The boy’s skill was obviously small and undeveloped, but had he been born in a civilized place the Vizjeri would have sought him out.

 _Perhaps I shall return to the village after this is all done_ , Zodar said to himself. _Perhaps I shall turn them all into chickens. It would not be a fitting test of my new power, but still, I may desire lunch._ Zodar amused himself with various ingenious agonies he would inflict upon the village and it’s populace that his mind’s eye almost didn’t see the trap before his cart fell into it.

********

With a loud crash the wizard found himself tumbling about the cabin, along with his various chests and personal items. He quickly cast a slow-time bubble which brought all his personal items to a floating crawl, along with himself. Inside the bubble time passed at a fraction of the pace as it did outside. Wizards often utilized this spell to slow the advance of arrows or other missiles. Thus the nature of the spell allowed him to pluck his various belongings out of the air where they slowly floated in front of him.  Some of these charms and wands were quite valuable, and it would not do to allow them to be broken.

The carriage fell into a deep ditch dug across the narrow road which had been filled in with snow. Zodar examined the scene remotely with his mind’s eye. Two of the whimpering excuses for horses lay trapped at the bottom beneath the carriage writhing in pain. One of them was already dead while the third had scampered away into the wilderness. Four figures stood at the top of the hole in which the covered wagon currently lay, armed and filthy.

 _Barbarians_ , thought Zodar. Since the destruction of their homeland five years before the once proud warrior tribe had taken to lawlessness and ruin, preying upon those travelers unfortunate enough to pass through their lands, so much so that the King of Westmarch had fought a protracted campaign to pacify them. Zodar could see Rodolpho had already crawled from the pit, and was waving the small hatchet which he often used to cut firewood at the raiders, who were merely laughing at him. Any fool could see Rodolpho was no match for the barbarians, and they would soon dispatch him with ease. He took a moment to consider the implications of this. It would be good to finally be rid of the fool, but at the moment there was no time to find another servant who would be so loyal. No, Rodolpho was needed still.

“Ha look friends, the ugly one wants to fight” laughed the lead barbarian, a younger lad with long hair and square cut bangs. Despite his large size he looked to Zodar to be no more than a boy, less than twenty years old. “Don’t you know you’re on our land now? No one passes through _Wulfslang_ territory without paying a toll!”

Zodar gripped the handle of his long golden staff. Elaborately carved Vizjeri symbols twisted their way up the shaft, terminating in a Khazra shaman skull which had been mystically bound by his own hand. His mind’s eye showed the young barbarian advancing upon Rodolpho with a curled lip and a swagger. A simple teleportation spell is now in order…

******

Oslar stood there, frozen with shock, the sharp end of Zodar’s staff erupting through his back. One instant he was about to slay the ugly little whelp with the hatchet, the next there was a blinding light, and he found himself impaled. As the light left his eyes he saw the burning gaze of the mad wizard plunge into his very soul.

“Master! ” cried Rodolpho. He was bleeding where one of the Barbarians had already struck him in the head, but the sight of the wizard filled him with joy. “Big men goin’ get it now!”

The swiftness of the attack startled the remaining three barbarians, who stepped back a few paces. They quickly came to their senses, and spread out to surround the wizard. Zodar could see these men were not as brainless as they seemed. Usually the smallest display of magic is enough to send such rubes scattering in fear. _They be not cowards_ , the wizard thought, _but their bravery will do them no good_.

“Rodolpho, stay behind me.” Zodar said coldly. The three huge men circled him, holding their weapons high. Two of them were armed with crude yet durable looking swords, while the largest of them bore an ornate double bladed axe in one hand. The weapon was large enough that most men would require two hands to wield it, yet this barbarian swung it as if it were a child’s toy.

“You’ll pay for my brother’s death,” screamed the big one, “ _Sorcerer_!” He spat the word. So it would seem that old prejudices against the gifted had spread even to this isolated land. No matter, these men would all be dead shortly anyway.

The two smaller barbarians foolishly rushed headlong at him, waving their swords in the air, fully committing themselves to a killing blow. _These two were obviously inexperienced in any real battle_ , Zodar thought to himself. They’ve probably just preyed on helpless travelers, never facing any real resistance. He could dispatch them quickly with little effort. The large one on the other hand...

Zodar ducked and parried the first attacker,  a filthy lout with a long face full of pimples, and sent him sprawling to the ground with a whip of his staff. The second was more stout and had a nose like a pig, and came swinging his sword wildly, attempting to lop his head off. In one swift movement Zodar caught his attacker’s arm with his staff and sent his sword flying. The wizard thrust out his other arm and hit the pig faced barbarian square in the chest with an open hand.

“SALQUAT!” He screamed.

Instantly a blue light erupted from the palm of his hand, which solidified into a shower of ice crystals. However instead of freezing the vagabond solid the crystals tore through his body at a high speed, rending flesh and bone as if it were paper, leaving nothing but a bloody carcass behind. Zodar turned to the first barbarian whom he’d knocked down, who was desperately trying to crawl away. He raised his hand at the man’s back, and prepared to send a bolt of lighting through him.

Without warning the third barbarian screamed a war cry so terrible that it’s effect momentarily stunned Zoldar. The shockwave reverberated through his very bones, and shook him to his core! A lesser man could have actually been injured from the shout alone!

 _What trickery is this?_ thought the wizard. _Could this primitive actually have some magical skill of his own_? The wizard however was unable to finish the thought as at that instant the large barbarian leaped high into the air, and then came down next to him, generating such a shockwave that he had to concentrate to keep from being knocked over. The huge man swung his giant double-bladed axe and Zoldar barely had time to react. His golden staff was sufficiently strong enough to block the attack, but the force itself knocked the wizard off his feet, sending him stumbling backwards. The huge barbarian swung his other hand and caught Zoldar in the face with a closed fist, sending him sprawling a dozen feet.

Zoldar took a moment to regain his senses. Truly he’d underestimated this uncouth vagrant. Such a blow would have killed someone less skilled than he. _But I am no ordinary man_ , he remembered.

“You have killed my brother, and my kinsman, and for this you must die, _sorcerer._ “ spat the barbarian. “I will hang your head from our walls as a warning for your kind to stay off our land.” The barbarian advanced with absolutely no fear, and with a cold determination in his eyes.

The wizard stood, and showed no fear of his own. “I am no ordinary sorcerer. I am Zoldar, and the power will be mine!” Zoldar screamed and raised both hands towards the heavens. “BOMBARDIA!”

At the command of the crazed wizard the ground underneath the barbarian seemed to explode in fire. Before he react a huge flaming rock fell out of the sky and crashed at his feet, narrowly missing him by mere  inches. The impact however was enough to destroy the entire ledge he was standing on, sending both he and the wizard tumbling down the mountain side in a shower of rocks and ice.

 

******

 

Rodolpho squatted near the edge, staring down the side of the mountain, desperately searching for his master. He had been separated from the wizard before, but never for too long, and never without permission. What would he do if master were dead? Who would look after him?

 _Master isn’t dead_ , the short man said to himself. _Master can’t die. No one can kill Master_. But each excruciating minute that passed Rodolpho became more and more unsure of that statement. So it was with the utmost relief that after nearly ten minutes he saw the wizard slowly float up the sheer mountainside. He was overjoyed and leaped around Zoldar’s feet like an excited puppy.

“Master is alive! Master is alive! I knew the big men couldn’t kill you!” Rodolpho cried.

Zoldar was shaken, and humbled. That barbarian had given him a much harder fight than he’d care to admit. Sending down the meteor and his subsequent ascent from the mountain had taken a significant amount of arcane power, and he would need to meditate for a period in order to regain it. His nose was bloody, and ached where the barbarian had struck him. Zoldar waved a quick hand in front of his face and healed his nose, it wouldn’t do to have Roldolpho see him with such injuries.

That barbarian... he had a power of his own, of some kind. Not exactly magic, but something similar. There were many theories accorded to the different philosophers and mage clans about the nature of magic. Could it be that these primitive savages had managed to tap into the same force which Zoldar himself wielded, yet used them for different effects? That barbarian’s scream was no ordinary scream, nor was the shockwave generated by his leap a feat that an average man could accomplish. Such a subject would be a worthy field of study, had he still been a Vizjeri.

 _But I’m not a Vizjeri,_ the wizard told himself. Not anymore. _When I’m done here I’ll have ten times the power of any magician in the world_. Then the Vizjeri, and the Zann Esu, and the barbarians, and everyone else in Sanctuary would bow at his feet.

They would bow, or he would destroy them.

********

For three days, he has climbed the cliff face.

No food, no water. Only the climb, relentlessly upward, out of the deep gorge the wizard had put him in. Each step of the way, Kothar silently punished himself. Word of the stranger in Iskarvena had traveled fast. Men such as this don’t travel without riches. He had given his permission to his brother and his friends for this raid.  It had been his idea to set the trap for the wagon. But they didn’t know the stranger was a sorcerer...

Now Oslar is dead, and a mad wizard threatens his tribe. What business does a sorcerer  have in such a desolate place? These lands held little of value to outsiders. A half dozen flea infested towns not worth raiding, and a few hidden ruins here and there long since looted. The rest was mere snow and ice, for miles. This desolate country was truly at the end of the world. NO ONE came to the Dreadlands without reason. Those who did usually were on the run - thieves, murderers, criminals of all occupations - many of such lowly character found their way to these lands to escape the hangman’s noose. Some of them even tried to start their lives over, though not many.

Then there was his people, who came here not as criminals, but as refugees. Five years ago, after the dark wanderer reawakened the prime evils, and the demon lord Baal lead his dark army to capture the Worldstone. Kothar had heard rumors that one of his own kind, a barbarian like himself,  had been present in the final battle with the demon lord. A battle which in which the archangel Tyrrel had destroyed the Worldstone, which resulted in the complete destruction of Mount Arrarat, and the scattering of his people to the wind.

Kothar silently cursed the demons, _and_ the angels. It was the fault of the high heavens that his people were near extinction. For untold generations the children of Bul-Kathos had defended Mount Arrarat, many sacrificing their lives in the battle with the demon hordes. Where were the angels now when his people needed them most? If it were up to him mankind would be better off without each of them.

Now his people were lost, leaderless, and filled with despair. The king of Westmarch had even sent his army to prevent their migration into lands further south, driving many of them into the Dreadlands, forcing them to prey upon travelers for survival like common brigands. Many of his tribe often went days without food, women, and children...

And now this wizard was loose, planning who knows what. For the briefest of moments Kothar nearly gave into despair. The hunger and thirst were overwhelming. How easy it would be to simply let go of the rock face, and plunge silently down the mountainside. His tribe would believe him killed in battle, and would afford him all the usual honors. No one would know...

No. He could not face his brother in the Halls of Bul-Kathos, knowing he had died a coward’s death. Kothar steeled his reserve and dug his fingers in deeper, and resumed his climb. He will reach the top. He will retrieve his axe, he will find this sorcerer and he will bury his axe into the vile fiend’s skull.

For in his heart, Kothar was a warrior. And if the gods were willing, he would die like one.

 

******

 

For three days, Zoldar climbed the mountain.

The encounter with the barbarians had bruised his pride, but not much else. Far worse was the loss of one of the horses. The remainder was alive, but was far too weak to pull the wagon alone. Zoldar had his servant maneuver the wagon into a small cleft in the cliff-side, and laid several magical wards and charms over the entrance, so that to any passerby it would appear as part of the unbroken rock face. The remaining horse labored up the stony path behind him, overloaded with what little provisions and artifacts the poor animal could carry.

 _It will probably also die soon in a few days_ , thought the wizard. _But it matters not_. What matters is that he was close now, so very close, to obtaining that which had eluded him for so long. Nothing else mattered.

The wizard and his misshapen servant continued to trudge up the stony path, and eventually signs of prior habitation began to appear - a worked cobble stone, a shaped cairn to the side, pieces of broken pottery, an offset piece of a fence or railing. Finally they turned a bend, and came upon a dark cleft in the rock face, with a series of carved stairs retreating down into the inky darkness. The light seemed to retreat from the furthest depths of the passageway.

Zoldar spoke to his servant without looking at him, his eyes staring deep into the empty void before him. “Light a fire and stay with the horse,” he intoned calmly, taking his staff and a small pack with him. “I shall return before sunrise.” The wizard set off down the passage without a backward glance. Rodolpho bowed his head and set off to gather firewood as he was told. Although he didn’t want to be left alone in this dreary place, the thought of crawling through that deathly passage filled him with dread.

Zoldar walked into the darkness, then once the light had left completely, struck his staff upon the rocky ground and uttered a simple incantation. A small spark ignited on the tip of the staff and crawled downwards, until the whole of it glowed with an unearthly radiance, deftly illuminating everything within a twenty foot radius. Simple magic that any first year acolyte learns, but it still it served his purposes well.

What the light revealed almost denied description. A a vast, decorated wall, covered with a multitude of leering, evil faces, carved from the living rock, wrought and twisted upon each other so they almost looked as if alive. Even to the untrained eye they appeared more than simple sculptures. Limbs seemed to twitch, eyes to blink, mouths to scream in unending pain. Zoldar detected a faint trace of magic in the carvings which made them appear to move as such, a bizarre enchantment that worked upon and compounded the hidden fears of the observer, probably meant to scare off tomb defilers and grave robbers. Normal men would find anxiety and fear gnaw at them with every step closer they took, until such time as they would succumb and flee screaming like babes. Such a ward was child's play to penetrate for a practitioner of Zoldar’s caliber.

The wizard made a few gestures and intoned some words of power. His staff glowed brighter for a few moments, then faded as the ward cleared. The cliff face now appeared as just a simple wall, the ornate decorations mere stone. Zoldar inspected the relief closer. Hidden among the twisting shapes of pain and suffering lay three shallow depressions. _It’s a lock_ , he thought. _A lock which uses mana as the key, and only one who has sufficient ability to channel his inner strength could hope to open it_. He pressed his staff against them in a certain order. A deep purple light filled the depressions, which then shot out in lines which connected them. Zoldar heard a loud click from deep inside the rock. He stepped back as the wall moved inwards, then slowly moved to the side, revealing a long, dark corridor within, descending deep into the mountain's core. Up from the depths wafted a malodorous odor, the putrid stink of corpses and centuries. Zoldar stepped inside, the light from his staff fighting to penetrate the abyss. The rock on both sides of the narrow corridor was rough hewn, with crude scribblings etched into the walls here and there. He paused to examine some of the markings, which consisted of strange, roughly chiseled shapes and primitive carvings.

 _Demonic script,_ he thought to himself. He was so close now.

Zoldar navigated the stairs downward, deep into the bowels of the mountain, for what seemed like hours. With each step the inky void grew somehow darker, as if a thing alive, actively trying to snuff out what pale illumination the wizard’s staff could provide. And with each step also the air grew fouler, stifling, more thick. Lesser men would be incapacitated by the stench alone, but not Zoldar. A very simple spell was cast and the smell was lessened, allowing him to be aware yet not aware of it. Glamour spells were usually reserved for disguising one’s appearance, but the wizard had little trouble adapting it to block out the obnoxious odor.  Small creatures scuttled into holes and crevices at his approach. He caught sight of one of the disgusting things as it scurried away. It was somewhat like a rat, but larger and hairless, and with too many limbs. A vile mutation, brought on by a life spent in proximity to demonic energies. Such mutations have been known to occur in all manner of animals, as well as men.

At long last the narrow corridor opened into a wide chamber. Zoldar could tell it was vast, as the sound of his own footsteps seemed to echo, however the unnatural darkness prevented him from seeing past arm’s length. The pale light emanating from his staff was far too inadequate to penetrate the inky veil. Strange skittering sounds reverberated through the darkness.

 _Enough of this_ , Zoldar said to himself, as he raised his staff high and a spell formed on his lips.  “Illuminata!” He shouted. The tip of his staff sparked momentarily, then exploded into a bright, piercing sunburst. Such a spell was usually deployed while in battle, to dazzle and blind one’s enemies. Here it served a different purpose.

What lay before him was a wide, circular gallery, large enough for several hundred men to walk abreast. The walls were covered with more of the profane demonic scratchings, perforated here and there by large, dark holes. From these holes the smell of decay seemed to emanate, along with the varied skitterings of unseen vermin.  The center of the chamber held a crude, rough cut altar on a series of raised circular daises, each covered with profane demonic scribbling.

 _It’s a seal_ , the wizard realized. _The writing on the dais acts as a seal, to keep a spirit trapped within._ He could feel an old, malevolent force emanating from the altar itself, just as the occult writings said it would. To be so close after so long...

Between the wizard and the altar lay several dozen corpses, the remains of adventurers too brave (or too foolish) to turn back. Most of them were filled with dust, mummified by the years and dry air. Zoldar stopped to examine one of them. The leathery flesh was torn as if from the claws of a great beast, with enough force to shear through the bones beneath. A curious, four toed footprint pattern left tracks in the dried blood around it.

The sudden realization that whatever had killed these men may still be in the catacombs came to Zoldar just as the beast was nearly upon him.

********

For three days, Mehgan waited at her window. But her barbarian never came.

She had met him at the Red Stallion, one late night, long after her parents had retired for the evening. Father always told her a lady never went into town without escort. He was always doting on her for things like that. It tickled her to think how furious he would be if he found out half of the things she’d done.

She had spent nearly all seventeen years of her life in this backward nowhere of a town. Nothing ever seemed to change in this place. People were born, grew up, lived, and died within it’s borders, many of them never traveling more than a dozen leagues in any direction. Mehgan was determined to not be one of them.

As the daughter of the local baron, she had the privilege of accompanying him with his yearly trek to Westmarch for the annual feast of governors. Westmarch is a beautiful city, filled with wonderful people and incredible things. The city was larger than anything she’d ever seen, with towering spires and grand vistas, around every corner a new marvel, the fascinating sound of music made with instruments of string and brass, the sweet aromas of beautiful flowers and wonderful perfumes, the taste of strange, imported spices and bizarre foreign dishes. Travelers from around the world packed it’s narrow streets, boasting of tales of astonishing adventures in faraway lands, along with merchants displaying wares from exotic places. And people - so many people. More people than one could ever meet, of all shapes and sizes, each with a story to tell. When Oslar returns, Westmarch is where she would like to go first.

It was his plan, to relieve the wizard of his gold. Being the Baron’s daughter she had told him she could have no part of his scheme, but she kissed him and wished him luck regardless. After they had the gold then they would be able to purchase a horse from the stable master and begin their adventure. Oslar had suggested they simply steal the horse, but Meghan would not hear it. Although she never planned to return to Iskarvena, she would not betray the trust of the people who looked toward her father for leadership.

Father had spied upon their late night rendezvous and berated her when she had come home later that night, fury in his eyes. He had absolutely forbidden her to see the barbarian, even going as far as to lock her in her room. She would cease her childish infatuation with this boorish mongrel, or he would send his men to apprehend this barbarian, and throw him in the stockade permanently. Mehgan screamed, and cried, and begged, but in the end she had obeyed, as she always does. It was her father’s plan to one day marry her off to the son of a neighboring baron, or perhaps if he were lucky one of the kingdom’s seven princes. Whatever plan she may have for her future was of no consequence to him. To him, she existed as nothing more than a bargaining chip for his own advancement.

On the third day, Torin had come to see her. He was always seeking out some excuse to try and find his way into the Baron’s household. This time it was about farm equipment. Last time it was about rusty bolts on her father’s carriage. It was _obvious_ that the boy liked her, no matter how much he tried to disguise these contrived meetings as nothing more than pure chance.

Meghan had always been pleasant to him, and engaged him in friendly conversation. Although they had grown up together in the same town the two were never really close - father had objected to her associating too closely with the common people. He did have a handsome face and a quick wit. He’d make the innkeeper’s daughter a fine husband someday. But he was too _plain_ her own taste. He didn’t have the bravery (or the physique) of her barbarian lover. During one of their conversations Torin let slip that he was thinking of letting his brother take over the family business, of leaving Iskarvena, and traveling to wherever his feet would take him.

If she were born a man like Torin, no one would attempt to stop her from going her own way, traveling the world and seeing what adventures would come. But she was not a man, and it was her lot to stay at home and make babies, to care for children, and piddle with needle crafts, sewing clothes, and weaving tapestries, and other such boring nonsense. As a noblewoman she’d never want for much, and would never have to live through the filth and drudgery that the lower classes had to face. Yet the knowledge of this did nothing to assuage her melancholy.

 _It’s not fair_ , she repeated to herself.

********

Far away, in the high cliffs and harsh deserts of Aranoch, lived a primitive clan who made a meager living from the desolate sands. Lost in a wilderness, assaulted by desert brigands and hunted by wild monsters, the tribe was forced to adapt or face extinction. The young warriors trained their minds to develop a hidden sense, in which they were simultaneously aware of movement on all sides of themselves, helping them to detect danger from any direction. The most gifted adepts could empty their minds and project forth to “see” for many miles around.  After many years the mages of the Vizjeri heard of these hidden warriors, and sent emissaries to live among them, to learn this skill and integrate it as one of their own.

It was this skill that saved Zoldar’s life.

He moved his head mere seconds before the massive claws would have cleaved it from his shoulders. Instead the claws found purchase in the ancient victim he was examining, shattering it into a thousand dusty pieces.  Zoldar rolled with the instinct of a battle hardened warrior and sprang to his feet a dozen paces from his enemy, a maneuver practiced many times in the sparring rooms of the Vizjeri temple, the glow from his staff filling the room with light. Still he had only moments before the beast was upon him again.

It was pale and yellow, with taut skin that looked to be stretched too tight over it’s muscles. The creature hissed as it struck again, lumbering at him with a decrepit bow-legged gait. It’s hideous, eyeless face stared into him, mouth glistening with teeth.  The gaunt countenance of the horror before him invoked a memory in the wizard. In his studies of the arcane Vizjeri texts deep in the catacombs beneath Caldeum, Zoldar had found sparse mentions of such a beast. _The Hidden._

Forcing his mind into calmness, Zoldar extended his staff and concentrated on the proper words of power. In the space of a heartbeat he drew up the mana from himself and focused it through his arms and into his staff. A small spark emanated from the Khazra skull on it’s tip, which then erupted into a massive, sustained lighting bolt that tore through the beast. There was a bright flash, and a high pitched popping sound as the creature’s head exploded.

Zoldar searched his memory for all he could remember about the Hidden. They were creatures which lived in between the physical and ethereal realms, where they fed upon the fear essence of their victims before disemboweling and consuming their corpses. They also tended to hunt in packs, a fact to which the skittering noises at the edge of the room would seek to confirm. However it was necessary for them to manifest completely on the physical plane before they could strike. Zoldar reached out with his mind’s eye, and could feel the presence of many such unclean monstrosities, slowly surrounding him.

 _They would not find me so easy a target!_ Zoldar raised his staff high, and bellowed the words “ILIDIRUM!” before slamming the staff to the ground. A series of charged bolts shot through the staff and traveled along the floor, searing everything in their path. Most traveled harmlessly to dissipate into the walls, but more than a few found purchase with more of the unseen terrors. Multiple times the bolts were cast, again and again, until many of the creatures lay dead at his feet, and his mind’s eye could find no more. Corpses of the vile creatures littered the room, flesh charred, their mouths twisted open in toothy, soundless screams. Satisfied at last that none of the Hidden remained to lay in wait, Zoldar turned his attention to the altar at the center of the chamber. Many years were spent preparing for this moment, he’d given up everything he’d ever had. The power would be his!

Calmly he made his way to the top step of the dais. The black altar lay before him, a clean, blank slate, made of a dark volcanic glass, it’s only feature a minuscule hole drilled into the top. From beneath is robe, he produced a small ceremonial knife. This ancient blade was crafted from a dense metal which came from a fallen star, forged by the long lost _Nephalem_ , those bastard offspring of demon and angel. He had obtained it only after piecing together clues of its location through years of detailed research.  Zoldar had come across a description of the summoning ritual in one of the forbidden tomes.

Blood magic is an ancient (and forbidden) art, practiced mostly by primitive tribes in the southern jungles, and by necromancers. Using the power inherent in one’s own life force the blood of yourself (or an enemy) can be used for a number of different effects, such as divining the future, or creating autonomous “blood golems.” Generally such practices were seen as “filthy” to most other spellcasters, the Vizjeri included. To the old men of his former clan, casting spells involving the dead, the use of human organs, or other body parts were usually taboo. But Zoldar no longer made any distinction of this type when it came to the magical arts. It was a belief he had held privately to himself for decades now. To the enlightened mind, magic is simply magic, and the intent of the user is irrelevant - only the result warrants any such consideration.

He intoned the proper magical words with the correct inflection, and drew blood from the palm of his hand with the blade. A subtle glow enveloped the altar as Zoldar drew runes of power on it’s surface. As the ritual progressed the altar shook and heaved as if a thing alive. Cracks grew in the sides of the black surface as it began to pulsate, oozing forth a sticky red fluid. The wizard stood back as the pulsating grew quicker, and had to put up a mystical shield to protect himself when a bright flash burst forth from the hole in the altar, spewing a foul ichor all onto the floor. A small, strange being, horned and bent, curled into a little ball like a sleeping child lay on the black stone surface, it’s eyes closed.  

“You will rise, your master commands it.” Zoldar spoke with conviction.

As the creature unfurled itself and stood upright it seemed to be made of a transparent, swirling material, like a purple smoke, but more viscous. At it’s full height it’s head came below the wizard’s waist. Although the thing before him seemed small and weak, if the legends were correct it commanded far more power than could be imagined.

“My master… I have no master.” It responded.

“ I AM YOUR MASTER! I HAVE SUMMONED YOU, AND YOU WILL OBEY!” The wizard bellowed.

“ You have performed the ritual… so I am yours to command… but you are not my master….” the creature appeared to suddenly grow, seemingly quadrupling it’s height, looming over Zoldar. Twisted shapes swam through the creature, casting leering faces down at the wizard. “Azototh has no master.”

Zoldar stood his ground, and stared back at the swirling mass of demonic energy. “I am Zoldar! And I give the commands! You will obey, or you will be destroyed!” Now was a crucial moment. Demons such as these were cunning, and manipulative. The creature would do all it could to escape it’s prison, but as long as the blood bond held, it would be at his beck and call. The wizard held up his right hand. The wound pulsated with an impure, purplish light. “My flesh holds the scar which binds you to this world, and your will to my will! You will obey!”

The swirling form of Azototh backed down from the attempt to intimidate the wizard and shrank to it’s former size. “And so I shall…’” It spoke with a dark, guttural voice, like an animal’s growl. “To me are known the desires of the hearts of men… your desire… is power above all others.”

The wizard smiled. “Yes! And you will grant me this power!”

The demon reciprocated the smile, expanding it until it nearly wrapped around it’s whole head, an exaggerated mimic of the wizard’s own gesture. “I can… but not now, not here. I can show you the way, in which power beyond your wildest dreams can be yours. Power to shape worlds as you see fit, to feast upon the ebb and flow of the cosmos. I can enable you to be the master of this universe, and all in-between. All of mankind will beg at your feet, and both angel and demon will be as playthings before your might. This I will give you… but there is a price.”

The smile left the wizard. A deal. With demons there is always a deal. “Name it.”

The smile did not leave the demon. “You must grant me passage from this prison. Your body must become a vessel to me, so that together we might prepare the working.”

“No tricks demon! If I suspect you of treachery I will sever the blood bond and you will rot inside of this stone for another ten thousand years!”

“No tricks. You will see your desires granted, and be granted the power of a god.” The purple energy flowed like water upwards, as if poured from a vase. “Extend forth your hand, and it will be done.”

Zoldar raised up his left hand with the palm up. The wound opened on it’s own like a hungry orifice. Purple energy swirled like a tempest above the wizard, then poured down into the wound, which consumed it like a ravenous beast. Instantly Zoldar felt the presence of the demon assaulting his mind from all sides, a feeling of pure, raw emotion, unbound by human reason, and infused with a seething hatred of mankind. A multitude of images flashed before his eyes, faces screaming, bodies writhing in tortures undreamed of, and bloody battlefields without end. _Visions of the Burning Hells_ , the wizard realized. He had read first hand accounts of the Hells, described by the heroes who had ventured forth to do battle with Diablo and the other prime evils, yet no amount of dry prose could have prepared him for the visions of pain and cruelty which invaded his mind. Lesser minds would have crumbled to insanity under such molestation, but Zoldar was not a lesser mind.

Using techniques of concentration and meditation the wizard managed to reassert his willpower. The demon was forced back into the dark regions of his psyche. After a short time the demon relented, the visions stopped. Zoldar could feel Azototh hovering, like a hawk circling prey.

“Try that again and you’ll rot for eternity in this cave!” the wizard shouted.

 _Forgive me… master,_ replied the demon. _It’s been so long… I overindulged._ The demon shifted in his mind, clawing at the edge of his sanity, but remained in his place. _But, I can give you a taste of what is to come._

The wizard heard the demon chanting, and suddenly felt the power… a rush of power, more than he’d ever known, infusing every cell, every fiber of his being. Zoldar fell to his knees in shock, his mind overwhelmed with ecstatic, orgasmic euphoria. The power, it was beyond imagining. “I had no idea it would be like this!”

 _And now_ , the demon hissed behind his eyes, _Show me how you use the gift._

Zoldar looked up at the roof of the cavern, flicked the tiniest muscle in his finger, and the mountain fell away. He shot upwards at amazing speed, swimming through the rock as if it were butter. In the space of a heartbeat he was outside, soaring through the air like a hawk. Grey clouds billowed below him as the wizard sped among them, twisting through the sky, and the elation, the feeling of freedom… unlike anything he’s ever felt before. Everything seemed so open, so clear. He could feel air currents, twisting particles flowing through the sky like water in a stream. He could smell everything, the snowy peaks of mountains far away, animals running on the ground far below. He could hear those same animals, the pitter of small rodent feet, the snort of a mule three leagues to the south, moles digging through frozen ground in a farmer’s field outside the wretched town where the now dead pack horses were obtained. He could see for miles, far to the south, the gloomy peaks surrounding the city of Westmarch. And to the East, the endless wastelands, and the fabulous city of Caldeum, the Jewel of the desert, where Zoldar received his training from the Vizjerei. His mind momentarily drifted to those old sorcerers, dawdling with elemental powers, their noses buried in dusty books. And farther to the east, beyond the sea, lie the steaming jungles of Kurast. It was there that five years ago, a group of self proclaimed “heroes” had defeated the great evil Mephisto. _If only they knew what lay beneath that jungle...._

After what seemed to be an eternity the wizard returned to the ground. As enjoyable as the sensation of flight was, there was a task to be done. Zoldar hovered down the mountain path, his feet not touching the ground, until he came to the spot where he’d left Rodolpho and the cartridge hours before. The lumpy fool lay huddled in his thin blanket next to the cart, the smoldering remains of a fire in front of him.

To the east, to the jungle, that is where the power lay. The demon had shown him the location in his mind. Far to the east, beneath a ruined temple, lay a portal to another world… and ultimate power.

 _There will be tests_ , Azototh  hissed to him. _Tests…and ultimate power._

“I will pass the tests!” The wizard loudly proclaimed. Rodolpho looked at him with a puzzled expression, clearly not understanding to whom his master was talking to. Yet he knew enough to not question Zoldar when such things occurred that he did not understand.

 _The journey is long, and the dangers are many,_ the demon continued to Hiss. _Both the heavens and burning hells will try to prevent  you from reaching our goal, from completing the sacrifice. But there are some who have sworn their souls to me, and who will come to your aid now._

“Summon them then,” Zoldar replied, “and let us be on our way.”

From his mouth came words in the obscure demon tongue which Zoldar did not recognize. The ground below him swirled and began to glow with a reddish energy, before finally opening up, like a hungry, pestilent maw. From the portal came the screams of a billion lost souls - a portal to the burning hells. The opening spewed forth a legion of hideous creatures, each vaguely man-shaped, but twisted and deformed. They seemed to have too many eyes, legs that bent the wrong way, heads that were too long, too many teeth. The pestiferous monstrosities formed loose ranks, and howled when Zoldar addressed them.

“I am Zoldar! I command Azototh! I released him from his prison, he serves me now! Which means you all serve me as well!” the wizard bellowed his commands. The demons writhed and howled, but none broke ranks. Each kept their heads down, not willing to challenge the sorcerer who had bound their master.

“We travel east. East to Kurast, east to ultimate power.”


	3. The Ruining of Iskarvena

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The wizard Zoldar has bent the demon Azototh to his will, and has gained untold power as a result. The people of Iskarvena are the first to feel his wrath.

Chapter 3: The Ruining of Iskarvena

On the first day after the wizard came through Iskarvena, the sky grew dark. The air was unnaturally humid, not at all like the usual chill one feels at this time of year. The clouds rolled in from the east like waves on the ocean. Old Gahrain felt a sharp pain in his right knee, the same pain he felt every time there was a storm or blizzard coming, an ill-boding omen indeed.

On the second day, the beasts and animals of the forests were seen fleeing for their lives, frightened beyond all reckoning, their only impulse to survive. The clouds grew darker, and the people Iskaverna began to whisper. Could the nightmare possibly return?

That night the pimply faced barbarian crawled into town, half crazed and babbling like a madman. He burst into the Red Stallion, howling about wizards and magic and demons to all who would listen. When it appeared no one would heed his warning he took to smashing up the place with a bar stool to get the attention he so desired. It took Baron Ogstrom and three stout men to hold him and repeatedly dunk his head into the horse trough to calm him down. Even then he was forced to consume half a dozen ales before he could again speak without shrieking.

Torin was there (with pretty much everyone else, small towns being what they are) when the barbarian finally started making sense. Skivis was his name. He along with Oslar and Puglis (or "Pig-Face," as Torin remembered) had hatched a plot relieve the Wizard of his gold. The plot went south, and Puglis, Oslar, and Oslar's older brother were now dead. Torin noted how Meghan had looked shocked at this revelation, and had fled the room in near tears. Skivis had been knocked unconscious during the battle, and when he came to had tracked the wizard to the mouth of a foul smelling cave.

But the wizard was not what emerged from the cave. A stream of hideous demons had marched out, monstrosities of every shape and size. The pimply barbarian's eyes went wide during this part of the story, and he had to imbibe generous quantities of ale to keep from stammering. Puglis had fought bravely but was overrun, and had barely managed to escape. It was only by chance that he had come across one of Gahrain's sickly looking horses wandering on the mountain path. He had ridden the poor beast to death in his haste to escape the demon horde.

There was talk in the town square, with Baron Ogdstrom trying his best to calm the worrying voices of a town which had just recently rebuilt itself. The women and children were to be sent to hide the in mines near Mount Katarraht, while a small group of volunteers would stay to try and defend their homes. Some men in the crowd decried the decision to stay and fight. It was a suicide mission. Had not only the blacksmith and Baron Ogdstrom himself been the only survivors the last time? What could men do against creatures such as these? Would it not be better to just take what meager possessions of value they could and flee before it was too late?

As the townsfolk debated, Torin stole away and made his way to the Ogdstrom household. He found Meghan under the large willow tree in her front garden just inside the gate to their small estate, weeping. He wanted to take the girl up in his arms and kiss her, and give her all the comfort and solace he could, but the look in her eyes told him she wanted to be alone. He offered a few words of condolences and then made an excuse to leave before it became too awkward.

As the evening wore on, the air grew more humid and overbearing. Torin made his way home while the men of the village began to arm themselves and erect barricades. So Oslar and his Pig-Faced friend were both dead. Pig-Face? What was his name again, Skivis? It didn't seem right to think of him as "Pig-Face" anymore. Torin had despised those uncouth savages, but he didn't want to see them dead. And now the demons were coming, soon everyone would be dead.

Five years ago Torin was sent off with the women and children to hide in the mines while the demonic horde ransacked everything they owned. They fled for their lives like sheep. For three days they huddled in the dark, too afraid to speak above hushed whispers, jumping at the sound of every loose pebble or scuttling of vermin for fear of being discovered. They were utterly helpless, like babies.

Not this time. This time he would stay. He knew he was no fighter, but he would do what he could. He would make swords, or make arrows, or put out fires, or anything else he could to help defend his home. He wouldn't be able to look at Meghan in her face again if he didn't. She had planned to steal away in the night with her barbarian lover. What made him so great? Why did she choose him?

No, Torin was not a fighter. He was no towering barbarian. But he wouldn't run like a child.

********

Stanek dumped rocks and other assorted debris from his wheelbarrow into the road. Others had already begun piling them up into makeshift barracades. Five years ago Stanek was too young to stay and fight. At least that's what his father told everyone. Then Stanek went off to the mines to hide, while father and all the other men stayed behind. Stanek never saw his father again. Since then He'd taken over his father's butcher shop, found a wife, and had a child of his own. Now they were preparing to hide in the mines. He wondered if he'd ever see his daughter again?

Such was the way of the world, Stanek thought. Best not to think about it. Focus on the task at hand. He wasn't an educated man by any means, but like many commoners he had a practical outlook when it came to this sort of thing that book learned folk often missed. If they all worked hard and did their part they will keep their families safe. To his left Orrin Steelback the carpenter had been putting his trade to good use cutting firewood into long pointed stakes, while his son Oglby fastened them into the mound. After the tragedy five years ago Baron Ogdstrom had insisted on installing some protective fortifications. A deep ditch was dug around the perimeter of the town, with sides steep enough to prevent climbing. The only access was over two wide earthen bridges, one at the north and the other at the south end of town. Already there was barricade at both entryways, mostly just large mounds of rubble with wooden stakes planted at the base. A proper protective wall was begun but had not been finished due to lack of funding. Several of the men had already begun shoring up the unfinished portions of the wall with additional mounds of rocks and rubble. If there's one thing Iskarvena had an abundance of, it was rocks thought Stanek. He deposited his load then walked off toward the quarry to find more rocks. He and the men would work through the night, and with any luck when the monsters came, this time they'd be ready for them.

Thoughts of a warm meal and a good nights sleep fluttered through Stanek's mind when the spear buried itself in his chest. He slumped over, clutching at the shaft, and as blood filled his lungs the last thing he saw was a stream of hideous monsters that defied description squirming over the half-finished barricade like a maddening flood. He slumped to the ground as his breathing stopped. A hideous stench filled the air as the demons passed him by, like sweat and rotten meat. They had no further concern for him, he was already dead.

Just as before, the demons came. However this time they were a day early.

xxxxxxx

It seemed to Torin that in the space of an instant the world went utterly mad. He was strolling home after bidding Meghan goodnight when the screaming began. It was then that Hemmet the baker's son came running through the town, swinging a bell in his hands and making a resounding ruckus, sounding the alarm. He ran and shouted as loud as he could, the town is under attack, the demons are here!

As the shouting grew, several men emerged from the magistrates office. As they formed ranks Torin caught a glimpse of their faces - Sheriff Straton and several of his deputies, Rory the tailor, Terald from the mulberry farm, and a dozen others. Some were armed with swords, but most had an assortment of farming equipment, axes, pitchforks, threshing flails, and so on. Rory made eye contact with Torin and approached, holding a rusted sword and a worried look on his face.

"Better take this lad. Hurry home and find your brother, and keep him safe!" Rory said. He placed a long steel dagger into Torin's hands. The knife was flat and wide, a little bit shorter than his forearm, and heavier than it looked.

The old Baron Ogstrom emerged from the office, dressed in a polished armored breastplate and carrying an ornate broadsword. In his youth the Baron was an adventurer in his own right, and often blessed the patrons of the Red Stallion with tales of his bravado. Although he was nearing sixty he had a physique of a man half his years (excepting a bit of a paunch due to too much ale.) The Baron began to rally his men with a speech, but was only able to get a few words out before the arrows started falling.

After the first volley three of the assembled fighters were struck dead instantly. The fourth was pierced through the throat, and fell to his knees, gasping for breath. Morton was his name. Torin had known the lad since childhood. He was only a few years older, and always been one to look out for Torin and his brother. Morton had recently married the baker's daughter. Lila was her name. The two were trying for a child. Torin always thought they looked funny together, her being so much taller than he was. These thoughts flew unabided through Torin's mind as he witnessed Morton choke to death on his own blood.

Half a second later the first demon appeared, clamoring over the northern barricade. Several of the men stood there unable to move, frozen with shock. The creature was large and misshapen with seemingly too many limbs all bent at odd angles. As it cleared the barricade the men began to panic and back away, fear in their eyes. Torin found himself terrified and although his every instinct was to turn and run he was unable to move a muscle.

The Baron however would not be deterred. The large man took several great strides (Torin had never seen him move so fast) and brought his large broadsword down right on the demon's head, cleaving it clear in two. Steaming black icor spurted out which covered the Baron's face in a fine spray. The creature fell dead instantly, it's cloven skull spilling out a goopy, purplish matter (which Torin assumed was it's brain.) The monsters were mortal. They could die like anyone else.

"Quit starin' you slack jawed donkeys and get ready to fight!" The Baron yelled. "This is it! Fight like your lives depended on it!"

More arrows began to fall, some of them lit aflame, and then more demons appeared at the top of the barricades. Hideous creatures of all shapes and sizes clamored over the obstacle, each more disgusting and vile than the last. One of them seemed to have a head which was on upside down. Another had no face, but instead it's eyes, mouth, and other orifices sprouted from multiple places all over it's body. Spurred to action by the Baron's example the men began to fight back. In the first few moments several men fell, until the men eventually seemed to push the horde back beyond the barricade. But Torin could plainly see it was a one-sided battle. Men screamed and fell, hacked to death by strange, rough-hewn demonic blades. Others were torn apart by claws and teeth, or lit aflame by jets of unholy fire. There couldn't be more than twenty men left defending while the demons seemed innumerable. It was only a matter of time before they broke through.

The demons were going to slaughter everyone in Iskarvena, there would be no survivors this time. There was no time to evacuate the women and children. Young, old, well, and sick, none would be spared. Torin suddenly could think of no one else but his father, and brother. As the men around him were slaughtered like calves he turned around and raced home as fast as he could. The flaming arrows had lit the roofs of several buildings on fire. Already he could hear screams coming from behind and all around him. Torin's house lay somewhat on the outskirts of the town proper, further beyond the southern entrance. His only hope rode on the chance that the horde had not yet circled the town and discovered his home. If he could get there in time he and Tory and Father could flee to the south, with any luck they could seek protection in another village, or maybe even in Westmarch. They had to escape, he had to get them out. He was past the town square and halfway to his home when he heard a scream coming from the direction of the Ogdstrom estate.

Meghan! What a fool he was, how could he leave her in danger! Torin turned around and raced back the way he'd come. As he ran it seemed Iskarvena crumbled around him.

xxxxxxx

Zoldar stood at the head of his infernal horde as they emerged from the forest surrounding the backwater settlement he had visited several days before. The first wave had attacked, and the town was already beginning to burn. Such a small prize as this place didn't hold much value to him. Zoldar no longer cared about gold and silver, rare gems, or other such loot. He held no personal grudge against the people who lived there. He wanted only for a chance to experiment with his new power. The day before his small army of demons had raided and destroyed a Barbarian encampment to the est, however that consisted of a mere handful of people, mostly women and old folk. They had still managed to put up a decent fight, but still Zoldar thought this town would be a better test of his abilities. 

He approached the northern entrance with his entourage, where the fighting was fierce. The demons scrambled over the poor barricades of detritus and rubble like an endless wave. Still the defenders managed to hang on, stabbing and spearing each demon one by one. As the wizard judged the scene one of his demon attendants bowed slightly, a strange creature named Sxyxzthaz. Like the rest of his legion he was bent and misshapen. His three arms and four legs seemed to have too many joints and bent at the wrong angles. The arms also hung down to the ground, making him look like a hairy, simian insect. His head was bulbous and crooked, with multiple knots and welts. It seemed to be on upside down, or perhaps backwards, Zoldar could not exactly tell.

"Their defenses are poor, m'lord. It won't be long until we've broken through." The creature spat with an unnatural, guttural growl.

"Pull them back. Tell them to form up ranks behind me." The wizard replied. As Sxyxzath repeated his commands, the wizard approached the barricades. Inside of his mind Zoldar conversed with Azathoth.

You must not kill them all, the demon cooed to him in a sweet voice. We will need prisoners, for sacrifice.

"How many?" Zoldar said aloud.

Three. Preferably female, but male will do as well. Also they must be pure.

"Virgins," responded Zoldar. This too Zoldar had discovered when he poured over the forbidden tomes deep in the Vizjerei vaults beneath Caldeum. It is well known among the Vizjheri and other great wizard clans that magical components often gain their power through the intensity of the emotion imprinted or otherwise imbued upon said component. Different magical disciplines have developed ways of extracting and harnessing such energies. One of the most effective conduits for this type of power are children, as they are more often less incapable of controlling their emotions. Thus the near universal concurrence of child sacrifice among many magical systems. In one form or another all magical disciplines had developed such rituals, the simple fact being that harnessing the energy unleashed by the effect of sheer, unbridled terror on an innocent mind is highly effective. The innocence is the key. For example, long ago it was discovered that the same torture and sacrifice inflicted upon hardened criminals or prisoners of war, while still effective, easily did not produce the same results. Torturing and sacrificing an entire dungeon of blacked, soiled souls oftentimes doesn't create the same intensity of magical power as a single child. It was the innocence which made the sacrifice effective, the fact that so much is taken from one so young, and all the potential of life not yet lived, deeds not accomplished, and of what should have been suddenly ripped away, all of that harnessed and distilled to it's raw magical energy. With this power a skilled wizard could accomplish much.

Perhaps even become a god.

The Vizjheri long ago outlawed such practices, with a punishment of death for those who violated the law. Zoldar admitted to himself that the thought of performing such a ritual left a bad taste in his mouth.

Is something wrong? Azathoth inquired. Surely this doesn't -

"It does not." Zoldar answered. "Merely vestigial misgivings, instilled by a lifetime of living under the thumb of incompetents. You will have your sacrifice."

Then proceed. Deep inside his mind, the demon licked it's lips. Exterminate them to your heart's content, and let's be on our way. We have much work to do, you and I.

On the other side of the barricade the men of Iskarvena steeled themselves for another assault. All around them laid the bodies of the dead and dying, the corpses of men intermingled with those who were not men. There were only twelve of them left alive and able to fight. Blood and bile flowed through the street and into the gutters.

Terald crouched low, and attempted to peer around the side of the barricade. Behind him several men had just slain a few demons which had scaled the ditch, while others attempted to extinguish several fires. A quick glance behind told him it was the tailor's shop which had caught fire. A few of the younger boys and women were throwing buckets of water on it as fast as they could draw it from the central well, but it was a losing battle. Not that it matters now anyway, Terald thought, since Rory is already dead. Rory was among the first of the defenders to die, shot through the heart by a demonic cross bolt. Terald allowed himself a minute to grieve for poor Rory. There were only twelve of them left alive and able to fight, including the Baron and himself. They all stood in their positions behind cover, wary of being hit by an unexpected volley of arrows. He wiped his eyes and attempted to get his head clear. A new offensive could occur at any moment, and he would not allow himself to be taken by surprise.

From his vantage point Terald couldn't make out much. The glow from the burning tailor's shop didn't penetrate the gloom to any significant degree, however as he stared Terald made out a vague shape walking towards him. This shape however was different. It was a man, dressed in red robes.

It's the wizard! Terald thought. Like everyone else he had heard the gossip when the wizard had come to town three days before. There was no way he couldn't have, small towns being what they were.

The wizard raised his arms, and a began to gesture. A small, glowing ball quickly formed between his hands, no larger than a marble that a child would play with, however this marble was made of a bright, electrified light. He lowered his arms and the marble hovered before him.

Terald turned around to yell a warning to the other men, but by that point it was too late. With a slight gesture the wizard flung the energy ball forward. The missile slammed into the crude barricade, which resulted in a massive explosion of cackling mystical energy. Wild electrical bolts shot out for dozens of yards in all directions, instantly evaporating anything or anyone unlucky enough to be struck. Those who were hiding behind the barricade were completely obliterated. Terald's last thought was of a loud noise, then blackness as his body was torn to pieces by flying shrapnel. The few men who survived were quickly eviscerated in the ensuing rush of demonic soldiers.

The battle for Iskarvena was over, but the slaughter was only beginning.

xxxxxxx

Torin ran as fast as he could as the town burned around him. There was a loud boom, like thunder, then the demons seemed to suddenly come from every direction. Townspeople ran for their lives in the streets, most cut down by the hideous monstrosities before they could get very far. Others huddled in their homes, hiding beneath beds and cowering in closets, hoping against hope that they would be spared. Torin ducked between two buildings as a group of demon soldiers shambled past, laughing and cackling. One of them chewed on a severed arm like a toothpick. That arm belonged to a person he knew, a person who is now dead. Was it someone he was close to? Someone he cared about?

Don't think about it. Go and save Meghan. Then we'll get Torey and Father, and get the hell out of here. Torin repeated this same thought in his head over and over, each time he heard a scream. Each time he passed a dead body or witnessed another of his friends eviscerated in the street. He entered the gate into the Ogstrom estate, carefully slipping past a large, hairy monster which had just dispatched someone who appeared to be wearing a uniform. Perhaps one of the sheriff's men, or the Baron's household guard? It was hard to tell, as the body was very mangled. The demon had too many eyes, and a head that seemed embedded in it's chest, with a mouth as large as it's entire torso. With two of it's arms it held the mutilated body up so the blood could drain from the headless stump into it's huge maw.

Don't think about it.

Torin stole into the Ogstrom household and made his way up to where he assumed Meghan's room was. Although he'd often been allowed inside the Baron's house when the errand called for it (usually to fix some broken latch or other such mundane smithing work,) he had never been allowed to enter their personal living quarters. Slowly he crept up the stairs, straining his ears for any sound.

Abruptly it occurred to him that Meghan may not be here. She could have already fled the town, and may be running for her life through the woods. It would be the smart thing to do. If that were the case then he would have to go out and find her. But what if she were here, away in some hidden spot? Best that he search the house and be sure.

There were other possibilities to her fate, which he didn't allow himself to think about. Don't think about it. She had to be here, somewhere.

"Meghan," he whispered. "Where are you?" As he checked inside closets and under beds he heard a commotion from outside. Torin scooted to a nearby window, and peeked ever so slightly out from behind the curtain. Multiple fires raging throughout the town illuminated the night quite well. Out front by the gate two monstrous figures shambled into view. The blood drinking demon had been joined by another, smaller, lumpier creature, with long arms and a hunched back. It carried the unconscious body of a young girl with one hand upon it's shoulder, as one would carry a sack of grain.

They have her! Torin drew the long dagger that Rory the tailor had given him. He raced down the stairs, ran to the front door, then froze.  _ What the hell am I thinking? _ How the hell was he going to kill even one of those things, let alone two of them? But they have Meghan, she could die at any moment!

The front door to the Osgrom mansion was still left ajar from when he came in. Torin slowly crept up to the door, crouched, and opened it ever so slightly, his eyes straining to peer through the slit. Out in the courtyard the two demons were barking at each other in a growling, guttural language. The blood drinking demon gesticulated to the girl, and raised his club above her head, but the lumpy hunchback smacked the club away and growled. The first raised it's arms over it's overlarge face and cowered, like a small puppy. Together they left the courtyard.

So they weren't going to kill her, not yet. That at least was a small relief.

Some distance outside of the Ogstrom estate the two demons met up with another group, who also had a few prisoners. All of the prisoners seemed to be children. A large, blue-skinned monster with a rodent-like face dragged a stout boy. Both of his hands were tied together, which terminated in a long rope which his demon handler used to lead him. The boy was kicking and screaming, trying his best to escape. The lumpy demon backhanded the child and screeched at him.

Tory! They had his brother captive! Thank the gods he was alive! Tory tripped and fell, but the demon didn't slow his pace, and merely dragged him along the ground until he could get his footing again. He trailed them, keeping to the shadows, quiet as a ghost. It wasn't hard not being heard with all the commotion about but he found it difficult to follow without being seen. More than once he had to hide as a patrol of disgusting creatures shuffled by.

They came to the town square where the demons seemed to be congregating. Torin crouched behind a ruined wall of a burnt out house, and found a spot where he could peer unobserved through a partially obscured window. For the life of him he couldn't remember who's house it was, or rather used to be.

Several more of the demonic troop entered the square with prisoners, all of them children. The children were placed in a circle with the cavorting demons surrounding them. There were many buildings left burning, and the odd scream echoed here and there, but for the moment the sacking of the town seemed to be complete. Many of the assembled monstrosities were covered in blood, and were preoccupied with squabbling over piles of ransacked valuables. Others stacked the dead bodies of Iskarvena's slaughtered residents into a large pile, while a few large, hideous creatures wearing blood stained butcher aprons proceeded to hack them into small chunks. They're being used as provisions, Torin thought. Butchered to pieces, no different than cattle. The majority of them were mutilated beyond recognition, but not all. Torin recognized more than a few friends staring lifelessly back at him.

Don't think about it!

Torin knew he had to do something, and soon, but through the rage and confusion he knew enough to not rush in headstrong. To do so would only lead to his death, and any chance of saving Tory or Meghan would be lost. He needed to wait and observe, come up with a plan, and free them when the time was right. He looked down at the long dagger that Rory had given him just a short time ago. He knew he was no fighter, but he had other talents. Torin drew upon his mother's teachings, took a few deep breaths and calmed himself, and began to summon the magical energy in his mind. There was no point in hiding his power any longer.

The demons parted, and through them came a covered wagon outfitted in strange symbols. The horse that pulled the wagon was caked in filth and splotches of blood, almost as if it were a walking corpse. Torin realized that's exactly what it was, a dead horse, animated and controlled like a puppet. Odder still was that this wagon wasn't driven by a demon but rather by a man, albeit a very ugly man. The man had a very lumpy face and a hunched back, and was very obviously terrified out of his mind. The demons seemed to enjoy laughing at him.

Then from out of the wagon stepped the tall wizard, the same one they had all ogled over some days before. As before he could feel the power emanating from the man, but it felt different. It was more primal, aggressive, almost bestial.

Evil.

Immediately the wizard looked in Torin's direction. He nearly panicked as he ducked down lower and began to shuffle along the wall. The wizard had sensed him, the same way he could sense the wizard. It only made logical sense. This sorcerer's skills were obviously far beyond anything he could imagine. He risked a quick peak, just in time to see the wizard gesture to a few nearby demons, telling them to investigate.

He cursed himself. There no way he'd be able to sneak past this wizard and free his friends. Nor could he pit his neophyte skills against one who could bend demons to his will such as he. His only chance was to get away, follow them, and try to free his brother and Meghan later. But none of that would matter if he didn't survive the next few minutes.

Two large demons began to slither in his direction. One of them was the blood drinking demon from before. The other was tall and gaunt, with a skeletal face and large horns. Although it looked as thin as a skeleton it carried a sword large enough to cleave a man in two. Torin made his way over to a stack of burned out barrels and crept low. The blood drinking demon hovered near his hiding place, and sniffed the air, like a dog.

It was that moment when the demon was hit by a hail of arrows and crossbow bolts, causing it to stagger back, then fall in a crumpled mess. From behind a burning building the Baron Osgtrom and the remains of his guard charged into the demon horde. Torin counted eight men, beaten and bloody. The Baron himself had suffered a wound to his head which had caused his face to swell up, forcing his left eye shut. With powerful strides he covered the distance between himself and the skeletal demon in less time than it took to draw in a breath and had cleaved it in two before Torin could blink.

"Forward you dogs!" The Baron screamed. "Show them how men die!" The remaining men raced to the attack. Crossbow bolts went flying. The demons were actually taken by surprise, and several of them were cut down in seconds. But it wouldn't take them long to organize and counter attack.

It's suicide, Torin thought. The baron and his men knew they stood no chance, but rather than run and hide in the woods like cowards they decided to die like men, and take as many of these horrid monsters with them as they could. They were attempting to bum rush the demons surrounding the children. Torin kept low, and quickly darted behind the wall, to approach the captive children from behind. To his right the town square erupted in fighting. The forward charge was already starting to lose momentum. The men fought bravely, and the baron himself cut down demon after demon with powerful strokes. But it would only be a few moments still before they were overwhelmed.  _ If I'm going to do something, it has to be now! _

Most of the demons guarding the children had moved forward to engage the men. The wizard and his misshapen lackey stood near the decorative wagon. He seemed bemused by this last ditch attack, almost smiling at them.  _ As long as his attention is elsewhere… _ There were still two demons guarding the captives. Torin grimaced. He was going to have to kill them somehow in order to free the children.

Torin gathered the power in his mind, and visualized it as a burning ball. The took only a few moments to form, small at first, then larger, like a miniature sun in his hand. He stood up, vaulted over the wall, and threw the ball as he landed, straight at the demon nearest to him. "Incendaria!" He screamed the word, as he'd never screamed anything before.

The demon was large and meaty, almost as wide as it was tall. It's skin was red as the fires of hell, and covered in many welts and pustules, as to the have an bumpy, almost sandy texture. When the fireball hit the demon was thrown several feet backwards. The force of the blast consumed the creature whole, burned away it's skin and muscle, leaving nothing but dust and bones to clatter against the ground.

The intensity of the attack surprised even himself, but there was no time to cast another fireball. The second demon had turned and was charging at him. It was much shorter, with thick grey skin and a horrid face. Tusks like that from a warthog jutted out both sides of it's mouth. One of it's arms was too long, and hung near to the ground. When it ran it used this arm almost as a third leg. Torin withdrew his long dagger and ran straight at the monster, and with both hands brought it down right through the creature's thick skull as the demon slammed into him, killing it instantly. The monster's forward momentum caused it to crumple on top of him. Torin found itself pinned under the demon's thick, smelly body. Torin heaved with what strength he had left to push it off…

The demons swarmed, and the men began to die. One by one they were picked off, until only the baron himself remained standing. He swung his large broadsword in powerful arcs, striking down any demon that came within range. They instead surrounded and taunted him, prodding him with his spears and axes, inflicting multiple wounds.

The demons parted, and the wizard strode through. Baron Ogstrom stood, caked with blood, heaving with exhaustion. Zoldar examined the baron - a tall man (almost as tall as himself,) thick with muscle, bald, with a square cut beard, wearing polished but well worn battle armor and carrying a large broadsword. He was obviously an accomplished fighter, no doubt had many adventures in his youth. But it wasn't what the old baron's looks that intrigued the sorcerer. The thing that lived behind his eyes looked deeper…

_ He has power his own _ , Azototh whispered to him.  _ Yesss… very similar to the encounter with your Barbarian friend, no? _

"How do you know about that?" Zoldar spoke aloud.  _ Your memories are open to me, sorcerer. I know what you know. _

"It is intriguing, yes. A subject which no doubt some dusty scholar will spend decades obsessing over. But the matter is far from my concern."

The baron glared at him, wild eyed, adrenaline still pumping through his veins. "Who are you talking to,  _ wizard _ ?" He spat the word.

"A demon."

"You brought these animals here! This is your doing!"

"That's right." Zoldar stared into the man's soul. He took a few steps forward, and seemed to glide over the ground as he walked.

The baron hefted his sword, to keep some distance between himself and the wizard. But Zoldar did not slow his pace.

The baron bellowed a mighty shout and charged. His broadsword clashed with the wizard's ornate staff. For a moment it seemed as if time itself froze as the two men grappled, then in a burst of magical energy the Baron flew backwards and collided head first into a burning wall. Torin managed to squirm his way free from beneath the demon's gray, foul smelling corpse just in time to see the Baron slump to the ground, dead.

He retrieved his dagger from the demon's skull and slinked his way to the captive children. By luck he came to Tory, who was still roughly bound by ropes. He clasped his mouth from behind and whispered into his ear.

"For the love of the gods don't make a sound!" He began to cut Tory's bonds. In the town square some distance away, the demons were howling and hollering, looting the freshly slain corpses for weapons and treasure, and throwing the bodies onto the pile to be butchered. One of them had removed the Baron's head and mounted it on a spear. The trophy was offered to the wizard, who turned it down with a gesture. The demon laughed, removed the head, and threw it onto the pile. For some reason several other demons found this immensely funny, which resulted in another round of loud braying and ear-piercing laughter.

Tory was nearly free. After this he would free Meghan, then the three of them could run away and hide out until this nightmare was over. Don't worry how you're going to do it, just do it. Get him and get the hell out of here. Don't think about it don't think about it don't-

Torin felt a hand grip his shoulder, like cold, piercing iron. He was yanked violently backwards and thrown several feet, causing him to drop the dagger. "Tory, run! Get free and run!"

The demon who caught him was immense, nearly twice the size of a man, with a goat's head and cloven hoves instead of feet. It was dressed in rags, with what looked like charms or trinkets woven throughout. It raised a large iron warhammer over it's head, and Torin barley managed to roll away before his head was completely pulverized. The Goatman was huge and powerful, but also slow. Again and again the Goatman struck, missing him by mere inches. Torin kicked out at the creature's knees with both legs, which caused it to shriek with pain. He scrambled to his feet and backed away.

He found himself surrounded by hideous, leering creatures on all sides, much like the Baron Ogstrom mere moments before. Unlike the late baron however he was not armed. The demons enjoyed taunting him all the same, poking at him with spears and swords, wounding him in several places. He couldn't see if Tory had managed to escape. The dagger had fallen within his reach, he could only pray his brother had picked it up and cut the ropes binding his feet. Maybe he managed to save some of the other children too. That would make this all worth it.

He summoned the magic in his mind, even more intensely than before. With all of his love, all of his hate, all of his fear and shame, he poured all of it into this final gambit. If he were to die, then he was going to take these things with him.  _ All of them!  _ Despite the leering and taunting from the demon horde surrounding him, a cackling aura began to form around his body. The intensity of his emotions enabled him to channel far more power than he'd ever thought possible. Energy ebbed and flowed, drawn in by waves. One of the demons charged and attempted to stab him only to have the spear forcibly deflected. An electrical bolt shot forth and burned the offending monstrosity to a crisp, leaving nothing but a scorched husk. The taunting stopped and a look of fear began to spread across their faces. A small, grotesque little dwarf of a demon with jutting horns and a forked tail took steps backwards, as if to flee. Soon the others followed suit, giving Torin a wide berth. 

The crowd parted to allow Zoldar to approach. Torin continued to gather energy around him, but the tall wizard seemed unconcerned. He smirked as he addressed the sandy haired youth, and when he spoke it was if he were addressing a child.

"And what do we think we're doing here now? Going to kill yourself, and all of us, is that it?"

"Yes…." Torin found it difficult to speak. It felt like his head were a boiling cauldron. Through the thick haze of his rage he could see the tall wizard, seeming to slowly float toward him. The wizard's eyes didn't look right, his pupils looked milky, like that of a dead animal.

"And what do you hope to accomplish by that? You want revenge? Revenge for your filthy village filled with it's boorish people and their miserable, insignificant lives? Don't you see, I saved you from these cretins. You should be thanking me for slaughtering these miscreants!"

More arcane bolts shot out from Torin, like wild arcs of lighting, searing several demons and forcing the crowd back further. Another arc erupted towards the wizard, but Zoldar casually deflected it with a slight gesture, the merest tip of his head. The energy went wild and stuck the small demon dwarf, incinerating it where it stood.

"Why? Why have you done this to us?" Torin stuttered the words. The power built inside him had reached a crescendo, it would need to be released soon. Stay right there, you filthy maggot…

"Just a test." Zoldar responded. "A small taste of what is to come. Soon all will know my name and feel my power. This place was merely an opportunity we came upon." The wizard smiled, and as he did so his lips curled back in an unnatural way. It looked as if a wolf were grinning. "It's nothing personal."

The wizard laughed a wild, maniacal laugh, and as he did so Torin released the power. It shot from him in a blinding light, wave after wave of arcane energy, crackling like a thunderstorm. The demons scrambled for cover like cockroaches, climbing and tripping over each other, trampling those who were too slow in their haste to escape. Those who were unfortunate enough to lag behind were burned away into nothingness.

After long moments the power subsided. Torin screamed in agony, then fell to his knees, his body covered in burns and wracked with pain. He felt drained in a way he didn't think was possible, a fatigue beyond mere physical exhaustion. The release of such concentrated energy had burned away most of his clothes, and much of the flesh on his upper body, including his face. Steam wafted from his skinless arms and chest. He sat there for long moments on his knees, chest heaving, every inch of his body smoldering with a cold fire he could feel down to his bones. And through it all the wizard still smiled.

"Quite impressive, young man. Quite impressive indeed." The wizard glided towards him, and although the earth was scorched and blackened all around he remained seemingly untouched. The smile crawled across the wizard's face, appearing to wrap around his head. His lips pulled back to reveal elongated teeth. "I can tell merely by looking at you that you have no idea what you're doing. A first year acolyte could've done better."

"Still, You had talent. I've taught many like you through the years. A lifetime ago had we met, I might even had taken you under my wing. Perhaps we could've tamed that wild talent, and forged you into a true wizard."

"But now you're nothing." A small flick of his finger sent Torin crashing to the ground in a crumpled mess. "Just a sack of meat, lying here among the other sacks of meat." He kicked at the charred husk of the small hairy demon with the jutting horns, causing it to disintegrate into dust. "You released far more mana than your body could handle, especially one as untrained as yourself. You're dying, young man. I doubt you'll live through the night."

The sorcerer leaned down, and brought his face closer to Torin's. The boy's breathing began to slow, and grow more shallow.

"Your problem is that you think you're different than the others around you. You think the power you wield makes you somehow special. But when I look at you, I see the same thing that I see when I look at everyone else. Disgust. Loathing. Nothing but squandered potential." The wizard stood upright. and began to float away. A demon who had survived the maelstrom stumbled back into view. It had a long body and bluish skin, and looked as tired and exhausted as such a creature could. Behind it came a few more demons, of various shapes and sizes. Their general mood seemed somber, as if Torin's last gambit had taken the fight out of them. The tall wizard turned and addressed them, and they began to form ranks. There didn't seem to be very many of them left, and though his impending death (along with the severe agony of his body) was foremost on his mind, Torin did take slight pleasure in this fact.

"That's all this world is, squandered potential. Did you know this world is artificial? It was created many eons ago, as a haven for angels and demons who had lost their thirst for the eternal struggle. A "Sanctuary," if you will. This… all of ths.." he waved his arms in a wide, sweeping gesture, ".. was created by cowards. Traitors, both angel and demon, weaklings who cared nothing for the eternal mysteries, and who's debaucheries birthed the human race, the most vile abominations of all."

"That's what we are, boy. We're the product of shame. Our entire existence is a mockery of creation."

He leaned over Torin again, this time coming within inches of his face. The thing behind his lifeless eyes stared into the dying youth with utter contempt and hatred.

"It has to end. I am going to end it."

The wizard stood up, and left Torin's field of vision. He could no longer turn his head, in fact Torin couldn't feel his arms, or legs, or anything else. The pain that had tormented him so mere moments before seemed so distant. He stared up into the sky, which was still covered in a thick orange haze from several burning buildings, and felt oddly at peace. As his vision grew dark he could hear the wizard laughing, and the remnants of the demon horde marching away.

_ So this is what death is like. It's not so bad...not at all. _


	4. The Sightless Eye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tory attempts escape from the Demonic horde as a lone Rouge warrior picks up the trail.

Dressed in a red cloak with the hood pulled up, the woman looked to be a simple traveler, a lone rogue, a threat to no one. But the forest can be a treacherous place, and looks can be deceiving.  

The forests of Khanduras, beautiful as they may be, were a cold and dreary place this time of year. Although they were too far south to receive any snowfall except on the higher mountain peaks the winter had been tough regardless. The harvest this year had been poor, and many of the villages surrounding the Eastgate monastery had experienced food shortages. Merchants from Westmarch charged exorbitant prices for staples such as grain or livestock, which the hungry townsfolk were forced to pay. This of course lead to the sudden appearance of highwaymen and brigands, all too eager to relive the newly wealthy merchants of their purses.

Khanduras had yet to recover from the death of King Leoric some seven years prior. Immediately following the vile king’s demise infighting broke out between several local noble houses. Small squabbles have erupted here or there but had yet to devolve into full blown warfare. As such no one particular noble house had the men or resources to combat this new infestation of organized crime. In addition the number of vile beasts populating the forests and surrounding lands had multiplied in recent years. It was not unheard of for entire caravans to go missing. Thus traveling through the forests alone was a daunting undertaking, but one that Aliza did anyway.

As a initiate in the Sister of the Sightless Eye, she had spent the last decade of her life training in the martial arts. She was well skilled in the use of sword and spear, but like all sisters her training focused in particular around the bow. Aliza was unnaturally gifted in the use of the the weapon, and was able to grasp advanced techniques at an early age. By thirteen she was already training with the masters. By sixteen she had begun to learn the Sisterhood’s sacred magical attacks, and by eighteen could summon fire and ice arrows at will. Now at twenty two she was considered a master herself, the youngest ever to achieve that rank.

And like all sisters, she had been taught the secret meditation techniques to develop the inner sight. When a sister cleared her mind and concentrated, she could focus inward and see many things. The skill could be used to see around one’s self in complete darkness, to scan a locked door or chest for a carefully laid trap, or in combat to predict the attack of an opponent. It was rumored the elders could even cast their minds to far away countries, see events which have transpired in the distant past, or those which have yet to occur.

Even the lowliest acolyte among them would have been able to sense the three men following her. Aliza smiled slightly as she placed a hand on her dagger. It was a silver dagger, made by a weaponsmith in far away Xiansai, as was favored among the sisterhood. Unlike her other sisters no engraved oaths of fidelity covered it’s blade. Instead on the hilt were a series of simple notches, one for each soul Aliza had sent to hell with it. Before this day were done she would most likely send three more.

 _They’re getting close now_ , Aliza thought. Three men, two armed with short swords, one with an axe. One of them had eaten pork belly for breakfast. The axeman had not bathed in several weeks. They were closing in on her from behind, just off the road, hidden by bushes and foliage. It would not be long before they made their move. She slowed her pace, and readied herself. One swordsman and the Axeman on the left, the remaining swordsman on the right. She didn’t need the inner sight now with the amount of noise they were making.  Any second now they would spring their trap.

Aliza stopped, and bent over, pretending to pick a flower. It was all the highwaymen needed. They yelled, sprang from their cover, and charged at her, brandishing their weapons like new toys. In a blur of movement Aliza had her bow out and the first arrow in the air before the leftward swordsman took two steps. The arrow landed true, straight through the heart. His body’s momentum caused him to take a few more steps before he fell face first, dead before he hit the ground. The second swordsman fared no better catching an arrow in the throat. He crumpled forward, sputtering and gasping. Aliza spun and rolled, dodging the axeman’s over extended overhead swing. He chased after her, swinging and chopping wildly. It was obvious this man had never been in any actual battle and had no real training. He was big and bearded, dressed in shabby peasant clothing. His axe was of the type used to cut wood. She dodged his wild swings easily and swept his legs out from under him with a swift, low arching kick. The axeman was caught completely by surprise fell straight on his back, the axe clattering out of his reach.. Aliza put an arrow through his hand for good measure, pinning it to the ground. A few feet from him the swordsman with the arrow in his throat still choked and coughed, flailing his arms wildly, taking long, agonizing breaths but unable to get enough air into his lungs. He would be dead soon, but his remaining moments of life would be in agonizing pain.

Aliza took no joy in making an enemy suffer. She notched another arrow and put it into the choking man’s heart. The body spasmed, then was still, his suffering ended. The effect of this of this act of mercy however was to throw the axeman into deeper throes of terror. Tears fell from his face as he attempted to speak. “I… I...I.. didn’t know… we never would have… not a wee lass like yourself….please don’t…” The man sniveled and cried. Aliza notched another arrow, which caused him to then uncontrollably soil himself.

Perhaps it was the look of terror and desperation on the man’s face, or maybe his pathetic mewling infected her brain, but she decided to show mercy to this man. “Now, give me one good reason why I shouldn’t kill you,” she said. The axeman looked terrified, and began to sputter some excuses. She replaced the arrow, bent down, and touched the man’s forehead. Aliza reached out with the inner sight, and saw this man’s life before her eyes.

“You were a farmer, and a good man until this past winter. The winter is hard, and food is low. You’re doing what you can to feed your family, or that’s what you believe.” The farmer quit sniveling, and looked up at her, his fear replaced with awe.

“This is going to hurt,” she said, and swiftly tore the arrow from his hand, causing him to yelp with pain. He sat up, cradling his wounded hand. “The life of a thief leads to an end such as this.” She gestured to his slain friends. “Go back to your family. If I find you in the forest second time I will not be so forgiving.”

The Rogue replaced her bow, put the hood of her cloak up, and continued northward, leaving the bearded man and his two slain friends behind. She had a lot of ground to cover before it grew dark. The Sightless Eye had revealed her destiny, and it lay in the Dreadlands.

_The world is coming to an end, and only I can stop it._

 

xxxxxxx

 _These god damned things never sleep,_ Torey swore to himself, as the badly worn cart lurched over yet another stone in the road, making him bump his head on the cage door, _again._ He had lost count over how many times this had happened. How long had it been since this nightmare began? At least three days. It was hard to tell, since the wagon was covered with thin tarp that prevented him from seeing the sky.  Was it morning? Noon? All could tell is that it was light outside.

Not that it mattered. Nothing made sense anymore.

Three days ago, the demons had invaded his home and killed everyone he knew. Three days ago, they kidnapped him, ransacked his house, and murdered his father. Three days ago he saw his brother explode in a magical ball of lightning. When that happened every single emotion he’d ever had seemed to all occur inside him all at once, but even more than the grief and sadness about the death of his family, Torey felt bewilderment at what his brother had become.

He knew of course that his brother had some magical talent. When they were younger their mother would often take Torin aside and disappear with him for hours on end, and although neither of them would ever divulge their activities during these excursions to either their father or himself, It was obvious she was teaching him about magic. Torin even used his powers a few times when they played as children. One time after a snowstorm the two of them had gotten into a rather prolonged snowball fight. It seemed to drag on for hours, with neither of them getting the upper hand, until somehow Torin had caused a huge snowball the size of a cow to come crashing down on his brother’s head, burying him alive and nearly suffocating him to boot. Their mother had punished him severely for this “careless misuse” of his powers. But since their mother had died all those years ago his brother had hid his ability, in fact he couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen Torin do anything more than light a match with it. But what he saw him do that night... he never even imagined something like that was possible.

Torin was surrounded by demons, being poked and prodded and taunted, then he suddenly seemed to turn into a living thunderstorm. Lightning shot out from him in all directions, burning every one of those vile demons it touched, yet somehow the tall wizard was able to resist this. He stood there while his brother exploded and he didn't even get a scratch. Torey saw them talking for a few moments but couldn’t make out what they were saying. Then Torin simply fell down, and it was over. Soon after those demons which had survived crawled back re-organized themselves, and they had begun their long trek eastward. He along with all the other children were herded into a makeshift cage and loaded onto a rickety covered wagon pillaged from Old Gahrain’s stables. They hadn’t stopped since.

With him were five other prisoners, of various ages. Peter, the five year old son of Louis the wheat farmer. Lucy the tailor’s daughter. Ralph and Morris who were two other boys Torey’s age, and the Barron’s daughter, who was the eldest of them all. All of them had also since stopped crying and remained quiet, out of shock, or fear of attracting attention. But Torey wasn’t afraid.

When his brother was taken by the demons he’d dropped the long knife he was using, and Torey had managed to scoop it up while no one was looking. He tried to cut through his bonds then and there but was too scared and trembling to make any progress, and so hid the knife under his tunic. In the days since he’d cut the ropes on his hands and feet and had picked at the cage. It was a primitive contraption made out of crudely cut branches tied together with ropes, not secure by any means. He’d managed to slowly saw partway through one of the corners, and was confident that a good swift kick would knock out one of the bars enough for him to squeeze through. Now all he needed was the opportunity.

But the god damned monsters never stopped. Day and night they traveled. There were two demons driving the wagon. Once a day or so one of them would empty the bucket they relieved themselves in, and pass around a basket with food and a bottle of dirty water. The food consisted entirely of charred, bloody meat. which Torey at first refused to eat, but he had eventually succumbed to hunger. It tasted vaguely pork-like, he didn’t want to think about what it really was.

He’d just have to wait. Eventually the demons would have to stop, either to take on supplies, or maybe when the destination was finally reached. They’d unload the cage from the wagon. When that happened he’d have an opportunity for escape. Maybe all the other children would escape with him. The six of them could take off running in different directions. They couldn’t catch us all.

At least, he hoped so.

 

xxxxxxx

For a day and a night, Kothar tracked the demonic horde.

It had taken him nearly five days of relentless climbing until he’d come the spot where he had fought his battle on the mountain. As he’d expected there was no sign of the wizard. Still, Kothar had to see to his brother’s body. Although he knew there was no chance that he had survived, not with the type of would he received, he felt honor bound to bury him. He still felt some responsibility for his brother’s death.

The scene of the battle had been covered in a fresh snow, but that had done little to erase the evidence of the slaughter. The bodies of Puglis and his brother Oslar lay where they had fallen, face down, covered in a layer of ice and snow. The cold had done much to preserve them. Oslar still had a look of near total surprise on his face. _At least he died quickly, without much suffering or pain._ Kothar swore to himself the wizard would get no such luxury.

Surprisingly Skivis was nowhere in sight. Perhaps he still lived?

Kothar buried them side by side in a shallow grave. _These two were fools, but they were also friends._ _Oslar would have wanted it this way._  This would have to do as he didn’t have time to give them a proper burial. Barbarian funerals usually involved several rounds of preparations, ritual cleansing, and a period of mourning for several days afterwards.  He would have to forgo all of these formalities if he wanted to catch up with his brother’s killer. _Or make that brother’s killers._

Their path was easy enough to follow as it appeared as if the wizard had been joined by a small army. He saw tracks of a large company of more than a hundred, but he wasn’t sure if they were men. The tracks didn’t look right. Some of them appeared to have been made by cripples, with legs that had limps, or some that had dragged their legs, and others that had too many legs. None of the footprints seemed to be the right size, or to have the right stride. Many of them didn’t appear to have been made by feet at all. Just what in the burning hells is going on? What is that wizard up to?

He had heard (and at times enjoyed) the scary tales the village elders often told around the campfires late at night. Tales of angels and demons, monsters from the depths of the earth, and of heroes who challenged creatures large and foul. As a boy he listened, fascinated by the lore of dragons, trolls, balrogs and Sand worms, and but had never truly believed them, as they were simply just stories designed to pass on a moral lesson to the child-folk, “Now listen to your mother and be a good boy, don’t lie or the Goatmen will get you!” and other such nonsense. In all his years of hunting and exploring growing up he had never encountered anything more supernatural than the occasional Quill Fiend.

All of that changed five years ago, when Mount Arreat exploded and the vile legions of hell poured out over the land like flies. His own clan were once three hundred strong, and lived in a small village near the outskirts of Sescheron, the Barbarian capital. When Baal lead his army of darkness against the Barbarian defenders, the mighty city which had stood for a thousand years was destroyed within a single day. He was only sixteen when this happened, but old enough to fight with the warriors. And fight they did, down the to last man in most cases, against every sort of vile demon and beast imaginable. Kothar himself slew more demons than he could remember. In the end it did no good. His people were crushed, their homes ransacked. Kothar’s village was cut off, and they were forced to flee eastwards.

His people, who had defended the mountain for generations, were routed and humiliated, scattered to the wind. They were referred to as “the Broken people” by others. Some went south as refugees and clashed with the kingdom of Westmarch. Other clans were driven insane by bloodlust, spread forth and reaped pain and slaughter on all they encountered, until they finally turned on themselves in an orgy of violence. His own clan slowly diminished in number as they were hunted by wild monsters, hounded by brigands, and treated like criminals wherever they went.

Kothar followed the trail for two more days, and as it veered to a familiar direction a feeling of dread began to grow within him. On the eve of the second day he spied smoke on the horizon to the east.

_In the direction of home._

When they had arrived in the Dreadlands, his tribe was reduced to a mere thirty five souls. Four families and a handful of others, that was all that remained. Everywhere they had went they gained nothing but contempt and oppression from those they encountered, everywhere but the Dreadlands. The Dreadlands was the sort of place where a man could go to escape his troubled past. It was land that no kingdom wanted, because to those who lusted after gold and jewels it contained nothing of value. But to his lost tribe it was a haven - forests with enough game to sustain them, streams to quench their thirst, isolated enough to protect from the swords of oppressors. Here they were finally able to regain some semblance of peace. They had begun erecting permanent dwellings, planting crops, _putting down roots_. It felt as if their long journey was finally over.

When he came within sight of the encampment walls, he knew that this was a fool’s dream. Little remained of his home but a burned out husk, the fields scorched, the dwellings ransacked and put to the torch. No sign remained of his friends or family, however large stains of blood in the center of the camp was evidence enough of their fate. The corpses of several dozen demons gave testament to the fact that they did not die easily. After all of the turmoil and hardship his clan had suffered, this is what finally wiped them out. The years of pain and suffering, of wandering, shameful and broken, all of that has finally come to an end.

Traditionally after the proper rites had been observed, his people would inter the body upon the slopes of Mount Arrerat, so that the soul could join with the ancestors in the halls of Bul-Kathos. But Kothar could not even give them this dignity. All he could give them is vengeance.

He spent less than an hour in the remains of his home before moving on. There would be time enough to grieve for his clan after he sent the wizard to hell. He scavenged what supplies he could, doubled his resolve, and set out. As before the trail was not hard to follow. It lead east, towards the small town his brother often visited. Kothar wondered if any of them were still alive.

xxxxxxx

All was black, like a dreamless sleep. And then Torin opened his eyes. 

He was indoors, lying on a bed with a straw stuffed mattress, underneath a quilted blanket. Sunlight came in through an uncovered window and burned into the room.

He sat up, and immediately regretted it as the world swam in a nauseated dance between his ears.  He felt as if he had been kicked down a well, trampled by several dozen horses, and shot in the face with a crossbow bolt all at the same time, and he had a massive, pounding, unnatural headache…  but he was alive. 

And he shouldn’t be alive, of that much he was certain. The memories of his confrontation with the wizard screamed back into his brain. He’d gathered everything he had and threw it at that fiend. Every ounce of power and then some, more than he’d ever imagined was possible, and the effort left him a charred shell. Torin hit that monster with enough arcane energy to power the sun, the wizard should have died ten times over. But it wasn’t enough, that degenerate beast somehow walked away unscathed. The image of his overlarge, unnatural smile burned into Torin’s mind. All he had to do was simply close his eyes and the vision came back to him, the tall man, in his thin red robes, flesh twisted back around his mouth, staring into him with something unclean lurking behind his eyes. Torin stood up...

… and immediately doubled over and began to dry heave. His body shook with more pain than he’d ever felt before. The sound of hurried feet pattred into the room, a gentile hand rested on his shoulder and firmly pushed him back to a lying position. 

“There now, don’t try to stand up,” a soft voice spoke to him. He looked up, but it took a few moments in the dim light before he was able to make out the demure figure of Gaewen Ironheart. She pressed a small round bottle filled with a red liquid to his lips, and commanded him to drink. The liquid tasted vile, but immediately the nausea began to subside, along with some of the pain in his head and soreness of his body. _Healing potion,_ he thought. His mother had taught him the basics of their working, although he couldn’t exactly remember the recipe to make them himself. He always thought the effectiveness of their healing was directly proportional to their distaste. 

“How did I survive?” he asked in a cracked voice.

“You nearly didn’t. After the demons finally left we found you in the town square, hardly breathing. I’ve been spoonfeeding you healing potions for the last three days”

“Three days?”

Torin sat up, his nausea gone. Gaewen stood and walked to the center of the room, with her back still to him she continued. “Torin, you weren’t in very good shape when we found you. I’m sorry, but there’s a limit to what even healing potions can do.”

“What do you mean?”

Reluctantly Gaewen turned, and handed him a small mirror. 

The skin on his face and hands had healed, mostly. There were very large scars covering huge portions of his body, including one that enveloped nearly the entire left side of his face. His hair was patchy, and a portion of his left ear was missing. She had removed his shirt and pants, but thankfully his under leggings remained. Similar scars covered his chest. He handed the mirror back to her, and sat forward.

“Torin, are you-”

“It’s alright,” he lied.  He wanted to comfort her, so he did his best to hide his emotions.”It’s enough that we’re both alive. How did you survive?”

“My mother and father and I, we took shelter in the wine cellar beneath the inn. Father covered the cellar door with a carpet as it closed. Apparently those vile things are too stupid to look under a simple rug.”

“How many people are left?”

Gaewen sat down next to him, her eyes cast to the floor. “Eight, including you. My mother and father. Petra, the wife of the shoemaker. A maid from the Baron’s house, and a few others.” Her eyes began to water. “Torin, they killed so many… they killed them all… everyone, the whole town…”

The tears came like a flood. He put his arms around her and gently rocked her, and they stayed like this for long minutes before she kissed him.

xxxxxx

It was another day before Torin felt well enough to leave the protection of Gaewen’s room. His first sight of what remained of Iskarvena didn’t fill him with much hope.

When the demons left,  those buildings that had not been destroyed were left to the fire. Despite this most of the structures in town had survived mostly intact. There were even a few that weren’t completely ransacked. 

The town’s inhabitants however could not say the same. An additional three people had been discovered alive in the day since Torin first awakened. This brought the total number of survivors up to eleven. Eleven people, out of a town with a population of nearly three hundred. So many lives lost…

The simple fact was that many of the bodies of the slain were gone. The demons had piled most of them up in the town center and butchered them like cattle, to be used as provisions for their long journey. The remainder that weren’t taken to be eaten were burned, a final act of desecration before they left. What was worse however was the fact that the demons had left behind their own dead to rot in the streets. The charred and broken bodies of the vile creatures lay strewn about everywhere he looked, their lolling eyes and twisted faces screaming silently up into the sky, mocking him with their very existence. Torin took no small measure of satisfaction knowing that he himself personally was responsible for destroying many of these vile beasts, even though it nearly cost him his life.

 _I’d do it again_ , he said to himself. _I’d do it all again, and more, to save my brother._

Torin spent the rest of that day digging graves with Mr. Iron heart, so that what little mortal remains of their former friends and neighbors could be given a decent burial.The corpses of the demons however were unceremoniously piled into a heap and burned, like the garbage they were. 

The two toiled late into the night, saying little to each other, pausing only for a late night meal of a simple porridge and bread. Supplies were scarce as most of the foodstuffs were pillaged by the demons before they departed. The meal was tasteless, but Torin was happy to have anything to eat at all. As they worked, he noticed that Mr. Ironheart tended to avoid eye contact with him. He thought to broach the subject with him later on, but decided against it. _Men deal with such matters in different way_ s, he thought. Frankly he didn’t feel like talking much himself. His mind kept wandering to his brother...chained up like an animal. Who knew if he were even alive?

The next day Torin rose early and explored the remains of his house. As his family dwelling was somewhat outside of the village proper it had been spared the flame. Besides the door having been ripped from its hinges there appeared to be no structural damage. Of course whatever vile fiend that had kicked in his door  had also helped itself to the contents of his larder (all of the sausage, dried fish, and other preserved meat was gone, but Torin noticed that whatever vegetables they had still remained.) All of his father’s smithing tools were also gone, but besides thievery the foremost aim of the putrid demon slime who violated his home seemed to be just to make the largest mess possible. Furniture had been upended, the contents of drawers and cupboards had been thrown about, chests were upturned and their innards dumped out all over the floor. As Torin began the arduous process of cleaning up, he supposed it could be worse. 

There was of course, no sign of his father. A small part of him had hoped that maybe he had escaped, perhaps hidden himself away in a closet or cellar. But a thorough search of the house had produced nothing. He supposed he would never see the old man again. 

_Father had always intended on leaving this house to me. It looks like he got his wish._

Torin bent down and began clearing the floor of spilled clothes and other items when something caught his eye. No, it wasn’t his eye - it caught his _mind_ . He could feel it, whatever it was, calling out to him. He searched frantically through the piles of clothes, broken dishes, and other detritus until he found it - a small black leather book. As his finger traced the star symbol etched into the front cover the image of his mother immediately manifested in his mind. _This was her book_. He undid the bone clasp and began to flip through the pages. The strange language at first confounded him, but the more he stared at the symbols the more they began to make sense. 

They were spells, written by his mother. They twisted and bent at strange angles, not unlike the weird symbols that illustrated the coverings of the wizard’s wagon. Torin turned the page to an illustration of a long, whispy symbol. As he stared at it, the image seemed to come alive, and move before his very eyes. _It’s some kind of weather spell… Wind? Rain?_ The young man studied the page, tracing his fingers along the curling, intersecting lines. _Not rain… but cold… Ice!_ All at once understanding came to him, like a flash. The image on the page was burned into his brain. When he closed his eyes he could see it, plain as day. It all seemed so simple now. A child could do it!

Torin raised his hand, with the palm outwards. As he gathered the power in his mind the symbol shone behind his eyes. The power began to build as a blue light radiated from his palm.  He took a deep breath, and shouted. “SALQUAT!” 

The intensity of the resulting ice shower surprised him, and the damage it did to the nearby table even more so. Large blades of ice shot from his hand in a whirling frenzy, with enough force to tear through his kitchen table and shatter it into small splinters. Several of them had even embedded themselves in the wall behind it. It occurred to Torin that he should be careful experimenting with such spells in the future, if someone had been on the receiving end of this spell they could have been seriously injured. _Or even killed._  

He spent the rest of the day pouring through the book, examining every page, inch by inch. Most of the pages still remained a mystery to him, he suspected those contained spells that were still too advanced for his level of ability. However he was able to learn two additional spells, one that allowed him to manifest charged bolts of lighting, and one that allowed him to move objects without touching them. The second one he remembered his mother demonstrating to him, long ago, during one of their private lessons. She had taken him deep into the forest to a clearing some distance away from the village proper in order to train undisturbed. As he thought now, this was more likely for his benefit more than anything else. She didn’t want the other townsfolk to know she was training him in the magical arts. _It would have made them fear me,_ he thought. 

She had drawn a circle on the ground in the dirt, and placed a single leaf in the middle. All one had to do was move the leaf without touching it. Torin stared and stared at the leaf, and concentrated until it felt like his head would burst, but the leaf failed to move. Chantal merely smiled, told him to calm his mind, control his breathing, and try again. 

 _But she never showed me the book. She didn’t show me, because I wasn’t ready._  

That night Torin feel asleep in his own bed for the first time in what seemed like ages.


End file.
